When They Missed Your Heart
by Riddelly
Summary: Jim Moriarty's death will not go unavenged, and fate isn't done playing with the Holmes brothers yet. The Doctor is soon to find himself absorbed in a most deadly game once more, and the stakes are higher than ever as he and his companions are thrown into the center of the Apocalypse itself. Superwholockwood. Sequel to "When We Start Killing."
1. Prologue

**A/N** _Finally, I've found the time to start posting this. This story is the **sequel to "When We Start Killing," **a Wholock story that I finished posting a while back, so __**if you haven't read that one, go and do so now, or you will be immensely confused.** __As usual, I have actually finished this entire story, and I'm rather happy with it; it's twenty chapters long, plus a prologue and epilogue, and I'll be posting a chapter a week. Like the previous installation, this story contains a number of slash, femslash, and het ships as it develops, so be prepared for that. Also, I don't own the cover image used._

**Rated T** _for violence, character death, torture, and language_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**PROLOGUE**_  
_

The slim man looks out of place on the abandoned country road, standing with his head high and his shoulders back, starkly outlined against the deep indigo-blue of the starry night sky. Everything about him—sleek suit, finely cropped hair, stern expression—suggests him to be the finest of English gentlemen, in no way the sort to be standing in the middle of a long track of dusty, gravel-laced dirt, waving off a few clouds of lightly humming mosquitoes as he reaches into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulls out a gleaming silver pocket watch. Its chain glitters in the moonlight, long and fine, and the man's icy features draw into a scowl as he observes its soft ticking. The sound is backed up by a chorus of cricket chirps from the long grasses that sway in the night breeze, whispering a song that no human could ever understand.

Another full minute passes by, the moon moving an infinitesimal distance across the silken expanse of darkness that hangs over the scene. The man stays as still as though he's carved from ice, his pose meticulously proper save one polished shoe, which inches forward to kick a bit more earth over a recently turned-up patch in the road. A small spade sits beside it, its dirt-encrusted metal glinting dully.

Slowly, a hiss of frustration seeps out from between his tightly gritted teeth. After one more swift glance at the watch, he turns briskly on his heel, and takes exactly one step away before there's another person standing in front of him.

"Thought I wouldn't come?" Crowley chuckles.

Mycroft's eyes flicker momentarily, but their pale grey shade remains as impassive as always. "It certainly seemed so," he murmurs, his gaze combing the demon's portly figure; "I did bury the box ten minutes ago."

"Apologies. I was cleaning up another deal, and it was rather… intensive business." He lifts one sleeve and purposefully drags it over his smirking lips, his stare darkly humorous.

"If you expect me to be either impressed or intimidated by your method of transaction, you will find yourself disappointed on both accounts."

A wide shrug. "All the better, then, eh? I'm looking forward to this one, I have to say. A powerful soul, yours is. More so than your brother's… it'll be an easy trade."

"Good. Then you'll be willing to give me a reasonable number of years?"

_"Years?" _Crowley begins to pace around him, slowly, each foot purposefully placed so that it raises a light cloud of gravel dust. "Well, I wouldn't say _years. _In fact… let's say I'm not _giving _you anything but the soul of your brother. We won't even have to call up those nasty hellhounds—just a flicker and you'll be gone. Good?"

"No." Mycroft's tone is stony, resolute. "I refuse to bargain with you if you're only going to twist everything to your absolute advantage. If you desire the ownership of my soul, then you're going to have to return Sherlock, and allow us an allotted amount of time together. It is vital."

"What, so you can warn him about Lucifer?" Crowley scoffs. "He'll figure out on his own. He's a smart one, that Sherlock. More than you give him credit for. And I'm sure he'll be able to cope perfectly well on his own, what with all the… _friends _he's managed to make over all this time."

"It isn't about coping. It's about winning. You understand, I know you do. You're aware of what will happen if Lucifer triumphs. Do you not wish to assist me in preventing him from doing so?"

Crowley's eyes darken so suddenly and notably, it's as if storm clouds have flown across them, obscuring their usual easy shade with a snarling, venomous fury. "I'm _hundreds _of years older than you, Mr. Holmes," he spits, his not-quite-identifiable accent thickening along with his temper. "I think you'll find that I know a good deal more about what I'm doing than you do. So until you're absolutely positive that you're on the right side, or that your _oh-so-carefully _chosen path of duty is the bloody _right _one, I'd advise that you don't even think about telling me what my role in this is."

A rabbit scampers across the road at lightning speed, startled by the demon's outburst. Its wide black eyes reflect the light, silvery and desperate, before it vanishes into the sea of grass on the other side.

"Allow me to phrase it in a different way," Mycroft begins delicately. His fingers run over the polished handle of the umbrella tucked close to his side, but he keeps its tip still, resting on top of the gravel. "You and I, we are both leaders, of two of the most powerful armies that any universe has to offer. You have demons. I have people."

"And what's so special about _people, _pray tell?"

"They're ambitious." His words clip the very air, sharpening and frosting its edges. "They're stupid, and they're angry, and they're blind. Much like your own… _subjects._"

"Is that so?" A sneer splits the demon's face, his eyes still narrow but no longer blazing.

"It is. You are an intelligent man, taking into account what I've heard from the other demons. You understand that this is what must happen. We will defy the apocalypse, and we can do it together, presiding over Hell and Earth. I have utter confidence that you will prove an immensely useful ally."

"Well, as flattering as that may be, it doesn't seem all that relevant to what we've been discussing," Crowley drawls. "If I remember right, you're here to bring your darling brother back. Wouldn't it be more… _prudent, _perhaps, to just leave him where he is? If you're trying to prevent the Apocalypse, then why bring out a tool that could be so useful to Lucifer?"

"Because Sherlock Holmes is more than just the Devil's weapon. He is one of the most intelligent humans on the whole of Earth, and we need him just as much as Lucifer does. It will be dangerous, no doubt, but he is superior to the majority of this race. He will be able to repay the cost of his service effortlessly."

"And if you're so determined to get him, it seems we're back to square one." This time, Crowley's eyes don't flash, but they gleam, a dark, threatening shift of the shadows in their deepest recesses. "You can either switch places with Sherlock now—no years, no stretching, just him alive and you dead—or you can stay here, _plan things out _with me, and your little brother stays deep in the flames. I have to say, it's quite a bit toastier down there, he probably doesn't mind." As if to emphasize his sarcastic, half-joking statement, a whip of cold air dashes across the two men's faces, stinging their ears and noses with its frosted bite. Mycroft's pale cheeks are beginning to show a light rosy tinge from the nippy temperature, but he doesn't make any move to so much as pull his coat tighter, only stares straight into the demon's sardonic eyes.

"I haven't got all day, you know. Or all night, whichever you please. Make your decision, Mr. Holmes. It's now or never."

"Sherlock needs to be alive," Mycroft murmurs, almost to himself. "That is utterly essential. If he dies… if he dies, then there will be no chance of us winning."

"And you still haven't explicitly said what's so damn _important _about sweet little Sherly." Despite his singsong tone, Crowley seems genuinely frustrated by his lack of knowledge, and it shows in the way that he pushes the words over the edges of his teeth, their tone almost too honeyed. "It's not just that he's clever…"

"No, it's not. But you have your secrets, and I have mine. If we're unable to form a steady alliance, I'll do my best to keep my knowledge to myself. It only seems _prudent, _after all, wouldn't you say so?"

The corner of Crowley's mouth twitches up in a semblance of a smirk, something almost approving, in a carefully measured sort of way. "You're quick, Mycroft Holmes," he muses. "You'll be a fine addition to the ranks of Hell."

"Who's to say that I'm joining?"

"You are. In a matter of seconds, unless this exchange is going to be even more tedious than it already is. And, no offense, but I have to hope that's not going to be the case."

Mycroft's teeth worry his lower lip for a moment, and the emotions under the surface of his carefully shielded face play out in a sequence that's all too predictable to any demon who's gathered their share of souls over the centuries. Indecision, doubtful uncertainty, desperation, resolve, regret, love. Even the last one is there, faint but clear. There's no one on this night road to know or care about the sort of things that would be meaningful to Mycroft Holmes, but there are a number of them—the precise shape of sunrise hitting the London skyline, the taste of fine wine after a long day of tiresome business, the smooth smile of a dark-haired personal assistant. Small things, but that's all a life is really composed of, in the end; Death himself would say so. Just a handful of moments, glittering like shattered glass fragments, all too ready to drift away on the waves.

Crowley's half-smirk slowly morphs into a full grin, and his teeth shine in the darkness. "Ready?" he asks. "Might want to take a breath of air. Savor the coolness…"

Mycroft barely has the time to suck in a final gasp before Crowley collides with him, reaching up and tilting the taller man's neck down with a single hand so that their lips can touch, brushing slightly before the demon attacks with a deep, indulgent kiss. He savors every moment, a smoky chuckle leaking up from his lungs, and Mycroft endures, unsureness spinning through his highly capable mind at a thousand miles an hour.

The chuckle expands into a full-grown laugh as the demon withdraws. "Enjoy Hell," he purrs, locking eyes with Mycroft for the briefest moment before the government official freezes where he stands, as if struck. His pale eyes seem to focus on a point impossibly far in the distance, and his jaw drops just the merest fraction of a centimeter, a mixture of childlike wonder and absolute terror crossing his face. His slim shoulders spasm once, and then his legs fold. He collapses like a puppet with its strings cut, dropping almost soundlessly to the ground.

A flash of tawny fur stirs in the grasses, and then a second wide-eyed rabbit sprints across the path. Moving in the blink of an eye, Crowley lunges forward, snagging the creature by its hind leg and dragging it in closer.

"Hello, beautiful." He straightens up, staring into its inky eyes, which bulge so wide that they seem ready to pop from its skull. Its whiskers tremble, fragile and innocent. "You'd better learn how to move faster, because you and everyone else on Earth are soon to be in a whole lot of danger, you know that?"

It huffs out air, a tiny squeak hissing from its mouth. He drops it suddenly, as though it caught fire, and it darts away, its feet blurring in their rapidness. Wind whistles across the moonlit countryside once more, twirling the high plant stalks and raising more dust from the road. Some of this settles over Mycroft's stone-still form, staining his formerly pristine black outfit silver-grey.

"A whole lot of danger," Crowley repeats almost thoughtfully, gazing at the corpse for several seconds before his face settles into a contented grin. He turns briefly towards the pitch-dark horizon. "One hell of a storm's coming," he comments, muted, to himself. Then, without so much as a flicker, he's simply gone, leaving the quiet little dirt path abandoned save the corpse of one of the most influential men on the planet.

Worlds away, in a distant star system unfamiliar to any human, a pale hand claws its way out of the ground.


	2. Chapter 1: Molly Hooper

**A/N** _If the prologue was confusing, worry not; it's meant to be rather vague right now, and will be cleared up as the story progresses. This chapter might also be somewhat hard to understand (parts of it, anyways), so I'll just take the liberty to remind you of how the last story (WWSK) ended: the Doctor (Eleventh), after Rory's death, ended up with Rose and Amy as his companions, the two of which were gradually becoming a couple. Amy, additionally, was dead with Rory's child. Hopefully that makes some sort of sense! Also, the bit in here with Molly's past experiences with the Doctor are built on a headcanon of mine. _

**Rated T** _for violence, character death, torture, and language_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

Molly Hooper

I've been left all alone like a damn criminal  
I've been praying for help 'cause I can't take it all  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

His face blazes in my mind just before I wake up fully.

_Help me._

My eyes fly open to the sight of my own sweat-stained pillow, and ragged gasps fill my ears, drowning out the usual peaceful morning ambience. The sheets are knotted up in my clenched fingers, and I can feel a sheen of perspiration across my forehead and neck, damp strands of hair sticking to my dampened skin.

Another nightmare.

I should probably be used to them by now, but my body refuses to cooperate with my mind's insistences that such a reaction is pathetic. Being pathetic, after all, is something I'm used to. He always used to tell me that I was—and that memory stings, prods at the tender parts of my chest in a painful, twisting way. I don't want to think about him now. My subconscious does the job well enough at night, a fact just proven by the specter that's left me so flushed and chilled at the same time.

It was simple enough. Him. Dark hair curled around sharp cheekbones, eyes like twin shards of jade-tinted ice, jawline sharp and lips strong as always.

Covered in blood.

It's stupid, it's ridiculous, and I repeat those words in a mantra as I force myself out of bed, to my feet, pulling on the fluffy turquoise bathrobe that's draped over the post. _Stupid. Ridiculous. _

He didn't die a bloody death. He couldn't have. At least, his brother insisted to me and anyone else who cared that it was immensely quick—for both him and John. A bullet, a flicker. Nothing more. _It was bound to happen at some point, Miss Hooper. A case gone wrong. They both died doing what they loved, and that's what matters._

It hit me hard, at first. I won't deny that I cried, for several nights on end—weeks, even, utterly unable to accept the truth. For the first time, the morgue began to really feel like a _morgue, _and I went back to wondering about each grey-skinned body that I laid my hands on—_did people care about you as much as I cared about him? As much as they cared about each other?_

Of course John's absence is painful, as well. He was just as wonderful a man as Sherlock, in his own way, and certainly carried a much lighter atmosphere than his constant companion, what with the smiles and the laughter and the brightness of his eyes.

My stomach clenches, and I raise a hand to it, fingers running along the soft fuzz of the robe.

_They seemed so happy…_

I glance over towards the alarm clock resting on the creamy wood of my bedside table. The numbers are faint in the morning light—_6:35. _I have to be at work in less than an hour; I'll have time to eat and shower, at least, though the former hardly feels like a tempting prospect right now, seeing as residual nausea from the nightmare is still pumping through my stomach. I clench my teeth together as I move to the bathroom, switching on the tap and running the cool water over my parted fingers for a while before scooping it onto my heated face. It's refreshing and chilling both at once, and I gasp as it streams down my chin and neck, glancing up for the first time to look at my reflection.

I look tired. That's the first thing that strikes me, and rather heavily. Exhausted, in fact, my eyes practically raccoon-like with darkness, my cheeks pale under the quickly fading blush from the bad dream, my hair framing my gaunt face in oily strands.

It's been weeks. I should be over it by now—no, over it, but at least beginning to recover. I can't help it—my mind is constantly plagued by fantastical, entirely impossible thoughts, that maybe they aren't dead after all—the circumstances surrounding their supposed deaths _were _suspicious, in any case, that's obvious to anyone; I never saw the bodies, none of us did, and just what sort of 'case' they were one was never truly revealed…

My hope is pathetic. I know it is. So I force it down, crumple it away and shove it to the very back of my mind, where I like to think it'll gather dust, though I know, of course, that the opposite will happen—as soon as the grief gets bad again, the hope will spring back, as bright and tantalizing as ever, and I'll have to push it away all over again.

I'm sick of the cycle. Utterly and completely sick of it. But I don't say so, don't complain. There's no one to complain _to, _in any case. They're all gone—Sherlock, John, even Jim's vanished. And around the same time as them, too. I wonder sometimes if their disappearances could have been connected somehow, but I know it's impossible. I'm just trying to draw parallels, trying, in my own way, to be a detective just like he was. To solve the mystery of their deaths.

Tears clasp around my throat, thick and aching. I press my lips together, breathing heavily, my hands gripping the sides of the sink. I don't need this. Not now. The last thing I need is to go to work with red eyes. That's the only place where anyone holds me in high esteem at this point; I really don't need to ruin it.

Slow, deep breaths. That's the way to go. My feet tingle from the iciness of the tiles, and I remember Jim commenting on them once, when he was visiting—teasing me about how I ought to get a heated floor. I didn't mention that I was, and still am, not nearly wealthy enough for a purchase like that. I wonder if he had heated floors at his house—the house that he assured me he owned, even though I never got the opportunity to go there. _Bit of a dirty guy who lives with me, _was always his excuse, spoken through a bashful grin. _He wouldn't be easy enough on a delicate creature like you._

Delicate. He called me delicate. Perhaps I am delicate. I like to think I'm strong, after everything, but here I am, crying over my sink at 6:30 on a Tuesday morning, mourning three men, only one who really cared about me at all. All three of whom I would've given my life for.

But there was no way for me to give my life for them. And it's stupid, utterly stupid to dwell on it like this. Inhaling sharply, I wipe the moisture out of my eyes and turn towards the shower, the robe slipping off my shoulder as I turn on the hot water.

Time to wash it all away. Just like I always do.

* * *

By the time I'm driving to the hospital, I'm doing much better. My hair is pulled back into its usual ponytail, its dampness cool against my back, and my hands on the steering wheel don't shake at all. I've only applied a light layer of makeup—no lipstick, for the most sentimental of reasons (Sherlock never liked it). By the time St. Bart's looms before me, I've managed to settle back into my usual state of life—numb acceptance, a surely fruitless fight towards the positive. It's my default setting, I suppose. Better than some people's. I'll manage. I always do.

It's a sunny day by London standards, and pale, creamy sunlight curls around the seemingly permanent smoke lingering on the horizon. It slants into my eyes as I trudge through the hallways of the hospital, my feet echoing on the floor, and all I can really think is that it's _dull. _Dull, without him. How did I manage life before Sherlock Holmes came along? How does anyone exist without an enigma like that man to keep them going?

I go through the usual actions as soon as I get inside—head to my office, peruse the files for the day, begin pulling out the bodies. It's methodical work—slow, careful. My hands move along the cold shapes of people who used to be humans, several of them coming and going within the few long hours—adults, seniors, children. The children used to disturb me the most. Now it's the men with the dark, curly hair that I can't stand—they aren't too frequent, but whenever one does appear, my heart stops for a moment. I know it's impossible, that he must be rotted away by now, decaying somewhere in the ground, but… I can't help it.

Each careful autopsy seems to take a lifetime, but it's good, it helps me forget. Work has always done that for me, really. It's repetitive, almost, creating a single endless pattern that erases everything else. I lose myself in it, moving faster and faster, filing report after report, freezing corpse after corpse. I can take my mind off of it, easily, almost, if I just let myself drift.

I'm so absorbed that I barely notice when it's my lunch break. I glance down towards my watch, and see that it's two minutes past when I'm meant to go, but don't feel any sense of relief. It's in the moments like mealtimes when I really start to _stew, _to let it all boil up inside of me. I don't want to have to confront that right now. So I purposely take longer on my current project, measuring out each stitch of fine black thread used to close up the gaping wound on the side of the young woman's chest, watching stonily as her greyish insides are slowly sealed away, covered up to make way for a more presentable appearance. That's part of my job—to make the dead look alive. Like they're sleeping, perhaps. I've learned better at this point, though, then to believe in the lies that my hands craft. When I look at a corpse, I see only a shell.

I wonder if I'd see more if I ever looked at Sherlock's.

This thought, as unexpected as it is uninvited, causes me to physically flinch, and my needle snags in the skin of my current 'patient.' "Damn," I mutter, and my voice scratches—it takes me a moment to realize that this is the first time I've spoken all day. Scowling slightly, I slip the silvery metal back out of the bloodless flesh, readjusting my grip on it.

Then the sounds come, and this time I simply drop it.

My stomach heaves almost before the rushing whirr becomes audible, but then the noise grows, slowly filling my ears, so that I'm standing stock-still, eyes focused on the blank wall, in utter disbelief of the noises filling the space behind me. Memories flood into my mind, memories that must have been suppressed for an endlessly long amount of time—me, still very young, living with my parents. A late night, my body tired but my mind wild with energy that I can't recall the trivial source of. And then a light in the darkness of my room, shadows cloaking a blue phone box, a man with unruly brown hair and the oddest of names.

_The Doctor._

I haven't thought of him in ages. Years. Must have dismissed him, at some point, reckoned he was nothing but a child's dream. And even now, I can't help but think that perhaps I've only gone mad, finally cracked, and this is nothing more than some sort of hallucination, itself. Not that I can see anything, though I'm sure I could if I turned around. No, it's the noise, only the noise, but it's enough to cause my lungs to tighten, my breath to fall soundlessly from my lips in pure disbelief.

How can he be here? Now?

After a moment of paralysis on my part, the creaking noises of his big blue box that I remember so well finally fade away, followed by a creak that must be the door opening and at least two patterns of footsteps on the hospital floor. My hands clench so hard that I can feel my nails angrily biting into my palms.

"Miss Molly Hooper!"

Not his voice. His words, but not his voice. My teeth are pressed together seemingly hard enough to crack as he approaches from behind, and, slowly, I turn around, my eyes wide and my face pale, staring in unadulterated wonder at the unbelievable sight before me.

It's his box, sure enough, and I can remember perfectly well what he called it, too. _And this, Miss Molly, is my TARDIS. Takes me anywhere in the whole universe I want to go, past, present, or future. Fancy a ride? _

And I'd given him the answer. Even as it pained my child's heart to turn down such a fantasy, I knew my place. _No, I'm sorry. My daddy is sick. He needs me to stay with him. Otherwise he'll get sad._

The TARDIS looks brighter now, and a bit bigger, as well, but that's probably just compared to the faded quality of my memories. Perhaps I'm just unused to seeing it before me, so vivid, so _real, _and before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch it. The wood feels warm, like the azure shade is a literal glow of heat, but chills run through me as soon as my skin brushes against it.

I can't believe it.

I can't.

It takes several seconds of stunned amazement before my focus begins to widen slightly more, away from the time machine itself, to focus on the people who are standing beside it, now looking at me inquisitively. There are two women—one blonde, with large brown eyes and full lips, the other one redheaded and smirking slightly, one hand subconsciously cradling her belly, which is swelled with what must be pregnancy.

And there's a man. It has to be him.

He looks nothing like the Doctor that I remember from that brief encounter so many years ago. His face is different, squarer, his eyes smaller and his eyebrows almost nonexistent. Dark hair flops over his pale forehead and a bright red bowtie is secured at his throat, topping a rather alarming attire of tweed jacket and thin braces around his shoulders. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and he swings back and forth on his heels, looking eager.

"Remember me?" he asks.

My mouth feels as if it's full of cotton, and I can barely get his name out. "…Doctor?"

"That's the one! Knew you wouldn't forget, Miss Molly." Beaming, he prances over to me, leaving the two women in their previous place, and throws his arms wide, as if expecting a hug. "Long time no see, eh?"

"I—I suppose s-so," I stutter out, my mind aching with the pure impossibility of my situation. "I… I can't believe you're… _real._"

"'Course I'm real," he chides, looking almost offended. That expression on his face—I can't help but crack a tiny, almost nonexistent grin, which probably looks demented along with the absolute shock of my other features.

"But… you look different. Your clothes, your hair, your face, your… _everything._"

"He regenerated," the redhead offers. I glance up towards her, really focusing on the women for the first time. They're pretty, and a few years younger than me. Certainly much more human-looking than the Doctor.

"Re… generated?" I repeat, ashamed by my ignorance.

"It happens whenever he's fatally injured," the blonde speaks up. She has a Cockney accent, faint but definite. "He grows a new body, basically. And a new personality. It's a trait of his species. Bit tiresome, but…" Her smile widens. "He grows on you."

The Doctor looks rather miffed about being talked about like he's not here, and he opens his mouth to move on, but not before the ginger cuts across him. She's Scottish, something that becomes very clear as her next words come out.

"Don't worry, I know what it's like to be left behind. And I'm probably not the only one, either. He's got no idea, the effect he has on people." One of her eyelids dips in a swift wink, and my nervous smile widens ever so slightly.

"Now, that was a mistake!" the Doctor exclaims. "Very different. Here, now, Miss Molly wouldn't even come with me, would you?"

"My father needed me." My voice is a ghost.

"Right, your old dad. And how's he doing now? Living a happy life, I hope? Grandchildren?" He rubs his hands together eagerly.

My head shakes, first to one side, then the other. It feels as if my whole brain is sloshing inside of it like water. "No… he… didn't make it. Through the sickness, I mean."

All three of their cheerful expressions slowly dissolve, and the Doctor's eyes darken. He suddenly looks much, much older as his shoulders slump down, hands hanging limply at his sides.

"I'm sorry," the blonde murmurs, and the Scot gazes at me in distress. I try to smile again, succeeding slightly more this time around. Faking the expression is easy. I'm used to it.

"It's fine. It was a long time ago."

The Doctor nods, almost to himself. "Right. Well, then, shall we focus on the present? And how I've finally decided to come back for you?"

"Why?" It's all I can think. _Why? _Nothing about me has changed, has made me special. I'm still the dull, average, skittish girl that I was twenty years ago. He has no reason to return, not now.

"We have a bit of a job ahead of us, and we think you might be interested." A cheery look returns to his eyes, almost proud, clearly anticipating my reaction to the words about to be spoken. "We're about to go and get Sherlock Holmes."

"He's dead." The words fall out of my mouth reflexively, numbly. I expect to see horror cloud the brightness of his face, for his shoulders to sink again, but the opposite happens. His mouth tightens, perhaps, tainting everything with a bit more grimness, but it also curls up in the corners.

"Not quite."

My head buzzes, and even though I have no reason to believe his words—the Doctor, I remember almost giddily, is most certainly the most insane man I've ever met, Sherlock included—I can't help but feel the barely-suspended hope in my chest erupt in a wild, clawing desperation, nearly suffocating me in its sudden ferocity. I feel my lungs move in a gasp, and I stumble backwards, my hand flying out and grasping at the cold, hard surface of the autopsy table.

"What?" I manage to get out.

"It was his brother," he explains almost ecstatically, "he made a—a sort of _demon deal—_"

"Demon…" My head is full of white noise and gray froth. I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. It's too much. All too much. The Doctor back, Sherlock alive… _demon deals…?_

"Alright, that's enough." The quick Scottish voice cuts through the foggy haze around my mind, and I hear footsteps on the hard floor before a hand curls around my wrist, squeezing it tight. "You alright?" she asks, softly. "It's a lot to deal with, I know. He's awfully insensitive about it."

"Insensitive?" the Doctor squawks in indignation, and the redhead whips her head around, shooting him a sharp look that immediately shuts him up.

"I'm Amy," she goes on, whipping back around to face me. She moves with remarkable quickness, especially considering her apparent pregnancy. "Over there is Rose, and you already know the Doctor, right?"

"Barely…" Somehow, I'm speaking, even though every cell in my body is surely humming with too much shock to form coherent words. "He—he stopped by, when I was younger…"

"Know what it's like." Settling her free hand on her hip, Amy looks intensely into my eyes, pinning me in place with her vivid hazel gaze. "Now, Molly, listen to me. The best thing you can do right now is let go of any sort of concept of reality that you have right now, because just about everything is about to get pretty crazy. Okay?"

"Al-alright." My throat is tight, but I force the syllables out. She nods, partially to herself, and then continues.

"Well, what the Doctor said is right. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, he made a demon deal. Demons exist, and they can resurrect people in exchange for a soul. Mycroft died to bring Sherlock back."

"It's rather brilliant, isn't it?" the Doctor trills, peeking over Amy's shoulder and clearly bouncing on his heels. "_Demon _deals, I've lived for hundreds of years and I never knew that _demons _existed, I mean—"

"So… Sherlock's back?" I breathe. "Why would his brother…?"

"Well, you see, Miss Molly, that's the big question here. We don't know. What we _do _know is where and why Sherlock passed away in the first place, and our job is to go and pick him up, see if he's got any idea what his importance may be." His voice is positively bubbling with energetic delight, and it occurs to me for the first time that maybe this has less to do with the demon phenomenon and more to do with Sherlock himself. He's happy, happy that the consulting detective is somehow alive. Is it possible that he's _known _Sherlock in the past? I wouldn't put it past either of them, to be honest.

Normally, I'd be more subtle, but any barriers between my mind and my mouth have been entirely knocked down right now. "Did you… know him? Sherlock?"

"_Yes, _see, you're smart! She's _smart!_" he exclaims, glancing towards his companions as if to make sure that they understand his point. Rose nods slowly, her eyebrows raised incredulously and a grin twitching at her full lips, while Amy simply rolls her eyes.

"Hardly," I mumble.

"Now, don't say that! I wouldn't ever have stopped by for you in the first place if you weren't something special, but coming back? You're one of the best, Miss Molly, and you're about to get what you deserve and go to a planet of dinosaurs."

My tongue is made of cotton. "Sherlock… died on… a planet of… dinosaurs?"

"See, the average woman your age probably would have run for help by now," Amy begins, tilting her head, "thinking us mad. Or thinking _herself _mad. But you, you just… stand here. Taking it in. I can see what he likes about you…"

"Hey," Rose interjects softly. A good-natured grin plays over Amy's shapely mouth, and I find myself swallowing, not even entirely sure why.

The Doctor huffs, sounding almost put out, and then scampers over to loop his arm around my elbow. I freeze, inexplicable chills running through me with the oddly familiar gesture, and Amy winces at his clear lack of social skills.

"Yes, Sherlock died on a planet of dinosaurs. Well, they weren't _technically _dinosaurs, more like a pre-Jurassic dragon-type creature, if Earth's period names can be applied to a planet half its size in a star system hundreds of—"

"Shush," Amy barks. To my surprise, he actually does, looking rather grumpy.

"Two women," he grumbles, "_never _again am I traveling with two women. The absolute _control _complex, you wouldn't _believe…_"

"You're about to be traveling with three women," Rose points out matter-of-factly. "So I hope you're prepared for that."

"Prepared, sure I'm prepared, I'm plenty prepared. Pond, Rose, into the TARDIS. Miss Molly and I'll be right behind."

"Dinosaurs," I echo vaguely as the two young women step into the blue box shoved up against the wall. Somehow, they both fit in, and my brows draw together—the Doctor was traveling alone when I met him before, back when he had the long coat and the wild eyes. But now, with two others… wouldn't it be cramped? And… "How am I supposed to fit in?"

He beams. "Oh, yes, you're going to _love _this. I'm sure you will."

"Love… w-what?"

"Come along, Hooper—no, no, that's not right at all. _Hooper…_" His lips distort in frustration as he appears to struggle internally. "Molly, Miss Molly, Molly Hooper… huh." The seriousness dissipates from him with a single broad shrug, and his arm, still entwined in mine, causes my shoulder to jerk up with the motion. "No matter, we'll figure that out later. For the time being—let's go, shall we?"

"Wait," I stammer as I trip after his bouncy gait, moving unsteadily towards the deep blue phone box. "Why are you taking me?"

He looks genuinely confused, as though he can't fathom why that question would possibly cross my mind. "Because you're brilliant, Miss Molly Hooper, that's why. And because you're the closest person to Sherlock Holmes alive now… with Mycroft and John gone…"

_So John really is dead. _My stomach contorts in two different directions at once, down at the knowledge that Dr. Watson will never be coming back, and up at the thought that I could be the third-most important person in Sherlock's life. That's not really possible, is it? I've always considered myself to be barely an acquaintance from his end, just the mousy little woman at St. Bart's who always got on his nerves with her excessive friendliness. But the idea that I could have been more significant, that I could have been _important… _I can't deny the tenderness throbbing in my chest.

"You need me to connect to Sherlock?"

"We know he cares about you, and that he _doesn't _about us, so… hopefully you won't _mind _us dragging you off like this, of course?"

He pauses, then, and I hesitate as well. We're alone in the room, with Amy and Rose gone, and all I can think is that this man is my _childhood—_he's the Doctor, the Doctor that I've only just convinced myself doesn't exist. I feel like I'm moving in a dream, like everything is lit up just a bit too brightly around the edges.

I can't deny that it feels amazing.

"Of course," he mumbles, glancing away for a moment and drawing one hand free from mine so that he can wring both of his together, "you don't _have _to come, I just sort of assumed that you'd like to—but I suppose you turned me down once before, and if you're going to again, it's not like I'll _force _you to—"

I shake my head, slowly, unbelievingly. "How could I ever… of—of course I'll come with. I want to help, and… I want… I want to." The truth of my words is so powerful, so desperate, that I can feel it in my throat, choking me up. _I want to. I want to travel with you, Doctor. _Words that I'd whispered in bed so many lonely nights, that I'd regretted never saying when he first came so many years ago…

"Please."

"Brilliant, come right along, then." Before I can catch my breath, he's whisking me into the box, the TARDIS, and I can't stop myself from laughing ridiculously as we push through the thickly painted cerulean doors.

It's bigger on the inside—bigger, _massive, _all gold and glass and magnificent technology that looks like it must be something out of a science fiction film. My speechlessness seems to be a sound in and of itself, humming in the air, and Amy and Rose grin at me from across the room, where they stand right next to what appears to be some sort of control panel.

"It's… _bigger,_" I murmur, "bigger on the inside than it is on the outside…" I scamper forward, my hands unwillingly darting out to run along the gleaming bronze railings, more laughter falling from my lips. "It's _massive… _this is… spectacular…"

"Spectacular, I like that one," the Doctor declares, skipping up behind me. "Better than _weird _or _impossible _or all those little things that they tend to say. You could make a very fine companion, a very fine one, indeed. I might have to drop you two and bring her along, instead!" he exclaims to Amy and Rose, who simultaneously roll their eyes.

"You wouldn't," Rose says simply, her fingers drumming on the console. The Doctor shrugs and grumbles, but in a good-natured manner. Excitement is building in my stomach—this place is perfect, this _feeling _is perfect. I'm so used to hiding behind walls, staying quiet and courteous and never letting out the side to me that longs for adventure, that always has.

But now, here, in an impossible blue box with the Doctor of my childhood fantasies, with this lovely couple and the prospect of Sherlock ahead of me, I can't help but smile. And it's not a tiny, meek smile, either—it's big, it's bold, it's everything that's been bottled up inside of me for so long.

It feels like home.

"And off to our favorite unnamed, uncharted planet!" the Doctor cries, swooping to the console and darting his hands excitedly over the array of knobs and levers laid out there. Half of them look like they have the most trivial purposes, and it all adds up to such a whimsical air that I'm more overjoyed than ever.

"Never thought we'd be going back there," Amy growls. For the first time, a real shadow falls over her lovely features, and Rose casts a concerned glance in her direction. The Doctor only focuses more intently on his task, eyebrows drawing a bit more sharply over his pale eyes.

The warmth in my chest crystallizes. I have no idea what caused this sudden shift in atmosphere, but the ominousness is palpable. Perhaps I shouldn't be so lighthearted after all.

Perhaps the road ahead of us is much darker than the Doctor has led me to believe.


	3. Chapter 2: Dean Winchester

**A/N** _And here's the start for the Supernatural characters. (By the way, I really do appreciate feedback in any form, critical or otherwise, so it would mean a lot to me if any of you could take a minute to leave a review!)_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

Dean Winchester

I'm not done  
It's not over  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"Bring us over another round, would ya, sweetheart?"

The woman behind the bar, all strong curves and sun-colored hair and fawn-brown eyes, flashes me a small, pearly grin and reaches down for a third dark bottle, which then thuds onto the counter before me. I flash her a wink, and she giggles to herself, turning away and ducking into her shoulder. She's shyer than most, not very talkative, but I don't mind. Any girl's a good one in my book so long as she's free of demons and has got notable cleavage. This chick, airheaded though she may be, certainly fills both of those requirements.

I take a swig, the glass of the bottleneck cold against my heated lips, and glance around the place. It's a bit of a dive, I have to admit—musty-smelling, weak music speakers… hell, the ceiling even looks like it might be caving over in the corner. But Sam and I aren't parked here for long. Just a methodical job, a quick run through to clear this dusty old town of a vamp hive, and then we're out. I'm enjoying it, for one—it's been too long, way too long since we've had the chance to go on a nice, old-fashioned hunt. All the angels, the demons, the Apocalypse… way too much shit at once. And even if Cas would tell us we're wasting our time, vampires are a welcome distraction from Lucifer and his hordes of baddies.

The girl glances at me again, eyes glimmering from underneath insanely long lashes, and I prop my elbows on the bar, one hand cupping my chin. "So, when d'you get off?" I ask smoothly, and a pale flush tinges her cheeks.

"Not till late," she murmurs. Her voice is high but soft. Nice.

"I don't mind late," I grin, and a little more confidence flows into her features. She bites her full bottom lip for a moment, and I can practically count the seconds of her indecision—_three, two, one, boom._

"Two," she finally says, and I give her a thoughtful nod. Sam'll be pissed, but whatever. I've survived on way less sleep for a lot longer, and so has he, the skinny little hypocrite.

The stool next to me, previously empty, takes that chance to scoot back, moments later finding itself under the weight of a tall, muscular man with shaggy blonde hair. His eyes are shaded, and his biceps bulge under a tight, pale gray T-shirt. I can barely make out the shape of some sort of tattoo, dark enough to stand out through the fabric. Stubble coats the man's chin, and a cigarette protrudes from his clenched teeth, smoke wafting in my direction. I scowl and toss him an irritated glance, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"And what can I get for you?" the blonde girl asks. She's so polite, like a waitress at a restaurant. Must be new to this dump.

"Whatever's cheap," he grunts back. His accent is far from American—Scottish, maybe, or at least something European. Everything about the guy is dodgy, and from the cautious looks thrown in his direction from around the room, I'm not the only one to think so.

I vaguely recognize that the smartest thing to do right now would be to keep my mouth shut, but the beers have brought a warm, bronzy sort of cloud around my thoughts, keeping them buoyant and easy. I find myself talking without really thinking about it, the words slightly indistinct but not quite slurred.

"So, you don't seem like you're from around here."

He shoots me a look. Dark eyes—very dark eyes, a stormy sort of gray, shifting under the bar's grimy lights. They're wary. Definitely not in the mood to chat. But I'm suddenly itching to know more about him—I've encountered my share of characters on hunts, but this dude's got something seriously odd about him. I take another long sip of beer, letting the burning cold liquid sail down my throat for several seconds before smacking it back onto the counter.

"You have a name?"

"Not one that's any of your business," he mutters as his drink is dropped in front of him. He uncaps it with a swift twist of his calloused fingers, ignoring the whine of metal on glass. "You'd do best to mind yourself."

I'm almost offended. Almost. "Is that so?"

"It is." Without another word, he snatches his bottle from the bar and slips down from the stool, stomping over to a darker corner, where he hunches over a small, round, empty table and stares moodily at its dusty wood.

My eyes narrow. Shifty behavior, I can generally shake off, but this—the guy's got to be up to something that he doesn't want other people finding out about. Why else would he go so far as to move across the whole room just because I asked him his name?

"Well, he was rude," the woman behind the counter sniffs.

"Very rude," I mutter slowly. Suddenly, he glances up and locks eyes with me for a long moment, his expression burning and alarmingly intense, before snapping his concentration back to the bottle in front of him.

Alright, so something's definitely up. My hands tighten into fists, and I hear a startled inhalation from the blonde woman.

Trying to distract both her and myself, I straighten up again, purposefully dragging my stare away from the mysterious man and beaming easily at her instead. "How about you? Got something I can call you?"

The apprehension in her delicate features is swiftly replaced by nervous shyness. "Grace," she admits, the fingertips of her left hand trailing over the back of her right.

"Grace," I repeat, "nice." But my tone has lost its enthusiasm. _Grace _unavoidably reminds me of angels, and therefore of Cas, and the thought of him always seems to throw me off of girls. It's a bit annoying, really. Like the dude himself is so sterile that just imagining him makes such a trait contagious.

"And how about you?"

"Dean." I'm not paying attention anymore, not even trying to flirt. Instead, my attention wanders back over to the strange man—who, I notice with a quick burst of tension, is standing up, leaving his bottle—more than half-full—sitting on the tabletop. As I watch, he strides through the shadowy room, weaving through groups of people, and to a door in the back, visible only under the cold red light of an EXIT sign. It's not the main door, and I find myself sliding off my own stool, reaching into my pocket and dropping a wad of cash on the bar.

"Sorry, sweetheart," I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, "gonna have to make it another night. I got business to deal with."

I ignore her slightly hurt noise and begin to stealthily follow him, winding my way casually through the throngs. Unfortunately, the place isn't quite crowded enough to make me invisible, but there shouldn't be anyone interested in watching where I go. Still, just to be sure, I make my path indirect, swearing internally and hoping that he'll stay outside long enough for me to catch up with him, and not just slip away.

Not a moment too soon, I finally manage to sidle up to the door, and I push it open, welcoming the swift burst of cool air that buffets my face immediately. A dark alley is outside, oily puddles dotting its cracked cement and a couple of trash cans, one of them tilted over, shoved up next to the side of the building. There's no one visible, but I step out anyways, letting the door close behind me. It's quieter now, the music from inside only a faint pulse. A dog barks from a ways away, and a rat shoots from one trash can to another, squeaking with alarm and leaving scraps of unidentifiable food strewn in its wake. I wrinkle my nose and take another step forward, glancing up and down. A car streaks by the far end of the alley, its lights rebounding off the puddles. I'm just ready to give up and head back inside when he's suddenly on me.

It happens all at once—one second, I'm gazing at the distant road, my arms loose at my sides and a soft breeze against my neck, and the next there are hot hands pinning my wrists together, a damp wall slammed against my back and all the air knocked out of my lungs.

It's him, alright—features twisted by the darkness, breath hot and bitter against my face.

"Dean Winchester," he snarls, and my heart accelerates as I desperately attempt to fend him off. I lash out a foot, but he knocks me aside easily with his knee, probably causing a bruise and inducing a hiss of pain from me.

"Who are you?" I spit.

Instead of answering me, he barks out words that seem entirely unrelated, but certainly don't fail to chill me to the bone. "I told him that I was done. I told Moriarty that I wouldn't be killing anyone else, and I broke that promise."

"Moriarty?" I try once more to wrench myself free, to no effect. "Listen, pal, I've got no idea who this Moriarty is, and I don't have any interest in him. Just—"

"He's dead." Suddenly, quite suddenly, there's a glint in the moonlight, between the heat of our bodies—a razor blade, dangerously near my throat. I suck in a long breath. Shit. "He's dead, he's in Hell, now, but I can bring him back. The Devil said so."

"The—? Oh, please don't tell me you're here for Lucifer…"

"Who else?"

"Lucifer doesn't want me _dead,_" I point out, almost exasperated. "I gotta be alive, so that Michael can try and get me. They want to fight it out. It's the fucking _Apocalypse, _idiot—you should check more into what you're dealing with before you just decide to kill someone."

"Do you think I care what I'm dealing with, Winchester? James Moriarty, the greatest man to ever live, is dead. And I'm going to get him back."

"If this guy was the greatest man to ever live, I imagine I would have _heard _of him," I suggest bitterly, very aware of the razor blade centimeters from my throat.

"You have no appreciation for subtlety. You have heard of him, if not by name." Suddenly, the razor is against my skin, pricking at it, and I feel my breath freeze. He's not _really _going to kill me, is he? Though up till now I've been struggling against his iron grip, I now fall completely still, unwilling to make any sudden movements that might provoke him into stabbing forwards.

"Well, forget that. _Lucifer,_" I repeat, dragging the name through clenched teeth, "needs me. If he wants to fight it out with Michael, he needs me as much as he needs my brother. My guess is that you misheard your boss's words, and trust me, if you mess up, he's gonna make you pay big."

The Scottish man's eyes don't even flicker. "He told me you might say that," he growls. "Idiot, he called you. He didn't expect you to understand."

_Understand what? _But I can't talk anymore, because now the metal is cutting into my skin, just enough so that I can feel a thin streak of liquid heat down my chin, rippling over my collarbone. He's going to do it. Slit my throat. Here and now. And if Lucifer ordered him to, it must be the will of both him and Michael—meaning that there won't be anyone to bring me back.

I don't really think about it, or at least try not to, but something deep in my gut tells me that this could be _it. _That it could all amount to something as tiny and sudden as being stabbed in the back alleyway of a shitty pub.

But he makes the error just in time—it's suddenly obvious that he's much more used to a gun than a knife, because rather than dragging the blade over my neck, he pulls it back again, aiming the point as if preparing to push it forwards and into my throat.

I move, my head dropping and my wrists twisting, knee lifting up to hit him in the most sensitive area I can. He lets out a shout of pain and the razor falls from his fingers, clattering against the ground. I consider scooping it up, switching our positions and trying to get him to talk, but I need to get back to the motel, where Sam is—need to make sure that he didn't get there first, that my brother is alright.

My legs churn swiftly as I dart out to the street, veering sideways and practically crashing into the door of the Impala in my haste. I slip in and slam it shut behind me, squinting at myself in the rearview mirror as I fire her up. There's more blood than I thought on my neck, staining the collar of my jacket, and I growl in frustration as I pull the car out into the road, her headlights swerving over the darkened street.

The motel is practically seconds away, but I dial his cell number on my phone anyways, holding it to my ear with one hand as I shoot down the lanes, honking furiously at any of the sparse traffic that dares to get in my way. Half of what I'm doing is illegal, but he's not picking up the phone, and my heart is hammering too hard at that to care if I get some sort of stupid ticket. "Goddammit, Sam…" The motel lights shine before me, and the Impala slides to a halt as I snap the phone shut and leap out. My feet skid over the pavement as I race to our room, number 57, and bring my fist to the door in a succession of heavy, quick raps.

It creaks open almost immediately. He's standing there, looking utterly confused, exhaustion underlying his darkened eyes and a barely-suppressed yawn clear behind his lips. "Dean?" he mumbles in confusion as I barge in past him, slamming the door shut and chaining it in addition to the flip lock.

"Dean," he repeats. I run my hand over the window, securing any latches that I come across. "What the hell is going on?"

"Someone's after us." I jerk the curtain swiftly shut before finally turning around to face him. "Someone wants us dead."

"Well, nothing new about that," he slurs, sitting heavily on the nearest bed. Though the lights are on, he must have been sleeping, and I feel briefly guilty for disturbing such a rare thing.

"Doesn't mean we shouldn't be careful. This guy was _tough, _Sammy, I barely got away from him. I thought he'd already reached you, but…" I allow myself a long glance up and down his tall frame, savoring the form of his living, breathing body. "Apparently not."

"Look, dude, you're acting kind of paranoid here."

"Paranoid? The guy was this close to _slitting my throat!_" Emphasizing my words, I gesture fiercely to my neck, and his eyes widen as he seems to notice the nick there for the first time.

"Are you… okay?"

"For the moment, yes." I'm more irritable than anything else, now, and I choose to express this by turning away from him, crossing my arms and glaring at the amber streetlight shining through our thin window screen. "But he meant business. Said something about Lucifer… that Lucifer wanted us dead."

"But he doesn't." Sam's tone is practically condescending, like he's talking to a three-year-old. "Remember? He needs us alive, he and Michael do, so that—"

"I know, dumbass, but apparently not anymore. He certainly wasn't hesitating to cut my neck open."

There's a long moment of silence as this sinks in, interrupted only by a soft shifting of bed sheets from where he restlessly sits. "Well," he finally mutters, "then I don't know, man. We could call Cas about it? He might have some idea what's going on…"

"To be honest, I think that he's pretty much as out of the loop as we are by now," I point out. But I can't deny that the thought of calling him in eases up a bit of the tension in my chest. I feel safer when Cas is around, somehow. Protected, almost. What can I say? The dude's saved our lives plenty of times over, and he's more powerful than any human, no matter how buff. Though, I admit to myself, I'm not entirely sure that the man I've just escaped from _is _human. Something in his eyes is certainly more animal—primitive, ferocious—but it's not like I can base my guess of his species on attitude alone.

"Can't hurt to try, though, can it?"

Giving a nod of assent, I take a step even closer to the window, facing fully away from Sam, and press my palms together. I wince and squeeze my eyes shut, muttering the mandatory words as quietly as possible.

"Um, Cas, man, we're… kind of in some deep shit, so if you could just teleport your cutesy trench-coated ass down here, that'd be great. Or, you know, fly. Whatever you call your little transportation method, which, to be honest, is kind of nauseating even if it is efficient, but—"

"I am here, Dean."

His voice is a relief, somehow, to the raging anxiety inside of me. I exhale mutely, turning around to face him. He stands in the middle of the room, between the beds and the television, expression serious as ever and hands clasped at his sides. "You said that you and Sam were troubled?" he continues, his voice rumbling and a slight scowl forming between his vivid blue eyes.

"Someone's after us," I explain immediately. "Some dude, he damn near killed me just about a minute ago…" My hand flies to my throat again, reflexively tracing around the edges of the throbbing cut there. I wipe at it slightly, then draw away to see my fingertips stained red.

"He tried to kill you?" Cas repeats, stepping forward and raising his own hand. At first, I draw back, but then he locks eyes with me. "I am only trying to help," he murmurs lowly, his fingertips brushing along my jacket collar. I cough slightly, then reluctantly allow my arm to drop. His skin ghosts over mine for a brief moment, and I feel a warm, slow burn as the blade nick seals itself up again. He carefully wipes away the residual blood, an action that seems a bit unnecessary to me, though I don't comment on it.

Sam coughs from the bed.

"Yeah, he tried to kill him. And… said he was out for Lucifer."

Finally breaking his unblinking stare, Cas retreats again, arm dropping to his side as he half-turns to Sam. "That can't be right. Lucifer does not want you to—"

"I _know_," I grumble. "But I know what I heard. Not just any little dick off the street knows that I'm uncomfortably familiar with the damn Devil. And he had my name, too—my full name. Lucifer was definitely in charge of him, whether or not it makes sense."

"He wouldn't want to avert the Apocalypse… he's been working up towards it for millennia. And even if he did want you dead, there would be much more efficient ways than hiring a man from which you can escape so easily."

"Well." I really don't know what to say to that. He does have a pretty good point. Even if Lucifer did have a reason for finally deciding that Sam and I weren't worth his time, why the hell would he send some Scottish human after me?"

"Tell me more about this man," Cas continues, glancing back at me.

I shrug, straining my memory for any unique characteristics. "Not much to tell. Tall, strong-built, blonde, Scottish… bit of an asshole, he moved away from the bar just because I was talking to him…"

"And he seemed human?"

"Physically, yeah. Every last hair of 'im."

"He is not a familiar figure to me." Cas looks swiftly back and forth between Sam and I. "Do you expect that he'll try to track you down again?"

"Well, he seemed pretty freaking determined, so I imagine so… he said something about someone else, someone other than Lucifer. Moriarty… like this Moriarty dude was dead, and Lucifer would bring him back if Blondie killed me. And Sam, too, probably."

Cas nods slowly, thoughtfully. "Lucifer is hiring a human assassin… but that would only make sense if he was entirely focused on something else, something that requires the attention of his entire army…"

I swallow involuntarily. Just the thought of Lucifer with a new goal, one that we aren't aware of—fuck, it's scary. It's hard enough to deal with him when we know every last detail of his plan…

"Okay, so we gotta find out what he wants, then," I get out, trying to prevent any desperate silences to fall in the dirty little motel room.

"It's clear enough, isn't it?" Castiel seems resigned, and I hate to see that expression on him. He's been through so damn much, that when he doesn't expect there to be a solution to something, it becomes pretty clear that we're in deep shit.

"Clear?" Sam repeats incredulously. "Anything but."

"He's after a new vessel."

"Oh. Shit." _Shit. _Shit, shit, shit. "I thought that we were, like, the prime vessels. The ideal meat-suits. It's not supposed to get any better than us." And it could be anybody, probably—any random old idiot who doesn't know how to turn down the Devil's offer. Lucifer can be persuasive, after all—if there's one thing I know about all the old religious stories, it's that. Temptation, sin… isn't man supposed to be unable to resist?

"I assumed the same," Cas mutters, "but there is no other explanation for this. At least, not one that comes immediately to mind. But I will make sure to consider the subject farther…"

"Wait," I say quickly, instinctively. His tone of voice makes it sound like he's about to leave, and I don't want that. The last thing I need at the moment is to be left alone with Sam, especially when this wackjob assassin is on the loose. "You can't just leave us here. What if he comes back?"

"You are strong enough to fend him off. In fact, it will probably be best if you can kill this man as soon as possible."

"_Kill _him?" Sam repeats. "No, come on, we can't just… he's a _person!_"

"An unimportant person. A person on the wrong side. He's an enemy."

My insides are knotting themselves up, over and around each other, pulling tight. I don't want to have to kill the guy, but at the same, I can't deny that it sounds rather satisfying—the sight of my bullet in his chest, his eyes frozen with his last breath, blood spraying out from just below his shoulder…

And, what's more, I don't want Cas to leave. I _really _fucking don't want Cas to leave, and it doesn't make much sense at all, but I'm positive of it. Perhaps it's the new variable in the situation—the fact that Lucifer's suddenly a step ahead of us, and how he could be—probably _is—_planning any and all of our deaths at this point. "We shouldn't split up at this point," I declare. "We're all in danger now. Don't deny it, Cas, because you know it's true," I add as protest flashes in his sapphire eyes. "Our best chance is to watch each other's backs."

"He's right," Sam agrees softly. "We aren't gonna last very long without you, Cas."

I can almost see his resolve break, like it's a physical change. "Very well," he agrees, gaze shifting to the floor. "I suppose that it is for the best. But you can't expect me to constantly defend you. I have… vulnerabilities, as well."

My stomach clenches as his words hit me hard—it's true. Just because we have an angel on our side doesn't mean that we're invincible. Far from it, as a matter of fact. I should cast aside any false illusions of safety now, before I really let them get to me and alter my sense of secureness.

"Yeah, we know," I sigh. I'm suddenly exhausted, and I pace across the room, brushing past Cas to drop down on the empty bed. It springs beneath me, hard and stiff but better than nothing. I reach up, pull a pillow down under my head.

"You're going to sleep?" the angel questions, apparently looking for clarification.

"Yeah, dude, but you don't have to be creepy about it. Just… go in the outside or something. I really don't need to wake up in the middle of the night and see your zombie eyes staring at me or some shit."

He dips his head as if beginning a nod, but then keeps it down, his chin nearly resting on his collarbone. "Then… good night, Dean. I hope that you sleep well."

"You too" is halfway out of my mouth before I realize that he doesn't need to sleep, and that he's not going to. Chances are that he'll spend the whole night standing outside instead, making sure the Scot doesn't come back. The image, inexplicably, causes a slight, tender twist somewhere behind my ribcage, but I easily shove the uncomfortable sensation into the same category as the anxiety plaguing just about every organ in my body.

"Goodnight, Cas," Sam yawns. "Turn the light off on your way out?"

Though Cas's hand doesn't approach the switch, the dusty yellow glow filling the small space immediately dissipates. Barely audible is the whispered flap of feathered wings, their sound slipping through the still, dark air.

I turn, flipping over onto my other side and punching at my pillow as if doing so will make it more comfortable somehow. I'm fucking confused, on way too many levels right now. Exhaustion tempts me, trying to pull me under, but for some reason my body resists, despite the light film of pleasantly sleepy alcohol that's still lingering around the edges of my consciousness. Only an hour ago, everything had been so simple—an easy job in the midst of the Apocalypse. And even the Apocalypse itself hadn't seemed so daunting—we had a _plan, _or at least some sort of plan. That is, refusing to act as vessels, and looking all the hell over the place for some way to bring down Lucifer in the meantime. Sam brought up Gabriel at one point, I recall. And I found against that idea as vehemently as possible; the last thing we needed was that _dick _of an archangel working as our ally. Anyways, he'd shown us last time we saw him just how much of an ass he was. That much is settled.

That much, and nothing else. Well, nothing, really. I don't have so much as an idea as to what we'll do tomorrow morning. Keep going after the vampires? They seem trivial, now. God, everything seems trivial. Maybe it's just my utter tiredness, but everything seems to lose its significance in that moment, its importance falling away all at once. How are we ever going to win this now? We're not. We can't possibly. We're just two guys and an angel, and we're working against an ancient fucking religion, against the goddamn _Devil. _If someone had told me what shit my life was going to about five years ago, I don't have a clue what I would've said. Maybe laughed. Maybe told them to fuck off, or to go easy on the drugs. Definitely not believed them.

But here I am now, lying in bed and listening to the slight scuffle of some drunk asses across the parking lot, with the image of Cas out there in my mind. I wonder if he's seeing what I can hear. I can imagine it perfectly—a pensive, vaguely disapproving expression on his face, his hands firmly at his sides, shoulders ever so slightly slumped as if weighed down by all the pressure that's constantly put on him.

And then, like I need another emotion added to the mix, a stab of guilt finds its way into my chest. We take him for granted, Sam and I. We never—_I _never really consider everything that he's done for us, not genuinely. Castiel threw away his honor, his life, his family, his _everything _so that the two of us could be safe. And at the moment, I really can't see how we're worth it.

_You owe him everything, Dean. _

The voice is unfamiliar, as is the singeing, desperate sort of feeling in that deep part of my chest, like something trying to claw its way out, something screaming for attention, that I notice it, that I realize it, that I—

Tired. I'm so tired that I'm more or less trying to sound poetic in my own head, and it's fucking dumb. So I sigh, as loudly as I can, the sound hissing through the air and shattering the silence, shattering the warm hum that's risen up to my shoulders now. I push it away, push it all away, and curl my fingers into fists, strangling the edge of my pillowcase.

_Fuck it. _

Sleep doesn't come soon enough, and when it does, I dream. Not the deep, ecstatic kind of dream, but the restless type. I wander through shadowed forests for hours, scraping my hands over miles of tree bark, my mouth open in a lost cry for help, my feet bruising on the rocky ground and my stare wide and frantic, endlessly searching for a darkened blonde man and a pair of blazing blue eyes.


	4. Chapter 3: Amy Pond

**A/N** _Sorry for the missed week, I was absorbed in finals and didn't have the time to post anything._

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

Amy Pond

Now I'm fighting this war since the day of the fall  
And I'm desperately holding onto it all  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

_Never thought we'd be going back there. _

I can feel Rose's eyes on me, careful and burning, but I pretend that I don't. She knows—Molly doesn't, but Rose and the Doctor were both there. Both on the unnamed planet when it happened—_saw _it happen, even; not the actual moment of death, but the injury that led up to it. They both remember.

The planet we're going is where my husband died.

The thought, formed into actual words in my mind, stings like a spike through my stomach, like the very one that killed Rory. That's the worst thing about it, undoubtedly—that he was murdered by our ally. By the creature that we were using to fight a battle that never occurred. And the Doctor knew, the whole time. He'd been there. A past form of him.

He knew that Rory was going to die, and he didn't do a single damn thing about it.

I still can't believe it, sometimes. It all feels surreal, distant, like I'm going to wake up in the morning in the bottom bunk, hearing the rustles of him getting dressed nearby, preparing for another harmless adventure in the TARDIS, knowing that I have my Doctor and my nurse and always will.

But Rory's gone now. _He's gone. _The sting in my stomach changes to a dull, aching throb, just like I'm used to, and I bite down on my lower lip, fighting back tears. I should be over him by now, shouldn't I? It's been months. _Months, _and I've cried every day.

I feel guilty, sometimes, because I know that my tears hurt Rose just as much as they hurt me. She's been there for me all this time, ever since the very night when he died. Our connection was slow, gradual. It never would have happened had Rory survived. But Rose… she understands lost love. Even if the one she was infatuated never died—in fact, he's here right now, shuffling awkwardly around the other side of the TARDIS, his head down as he casts us occasional sideways glances. He changed. Didn't want her anymore. I tell myself that she's over him, now, and it seems true enough—it's _me _at this point, me that she promises she loves, in a quiet voice at night, from the upper bunk where Rory used to sleep, or even curled next to me in my own—we can fit in together, just barely, and sometimes I need that. Need her arms around me and her lips at my ear, constantly reassuring me that everything will be okay.

She's the only thing I have to hold onto at this point, really. The Doctor and the TARDIS… I've learned better than to rely on them. I adore them, but the little duo of alien and time machine is never going to be as reliant on me as I am on it. So I really only have Rose.

Rose, and my unborn child.

I feel it stirring inside of me, as if the very thought provoked it—it's a _strange _feeling, fluttery and gentle, whispered. Tingling with magical potential.

Then it kicks.

"Shit!" I gasp, stumbling forward and reaching out for the TARDIS's railing. Sweat springs to my palms as I grip onto it, and I clench my teeth, eyes squeezing shut. Almost immediately, the Doctor and Rose are at my sides, her hand gripping my upper arm and his hovering around my shoulder.

"Amy, Amy, Amelia, are you alright?" the Doctor questions frantically, and I flinch away from him, inadvertently stumbling into Rose, who supports me by the elbows.

"Amy?" she asks, "are you—"

"I'm fine!" I bark, my eyes flying open as I pull away from both of them. I stumble over to settle down onto the nearest seat, and push my hair out of my eyes, impatiently combing it behind my ear. Inexplicable frustration is stabbing up inside of me now, and it pours out of my mouth involuntarily, fierce and aggressive. "I'm _fine, _why can you never see that? You're always worrying over me, and I'm sick of it, just leave me alone, will you two? Just leave me alone, because _I am fine!_"

Defiance flashes up in Rose's eyes, along with what looks to be a trace of hurt. "Of course you're fine," she mutters, her words laced with bitterness. "Why can't you just _accept _help sometimes, Amy? You—"

"Now, now, let's not get worked up, that's the last thing we need…" The Doctor rubs his hands together nervously, then places them directly on Rose's shoulders and spins her around, away from me. She manages to get one more darkened glance over her shoulder, towards me, and the tears battling against my eyes seem to intensify. I hold in a sob, partially of distress and partially of anger, and glare through my hair at Molly, who's standing on the other side of the console. Her eyes are wide and anxious, like she doesn't know what to do, totally lost. I scowl harder, and she quickly breaks our eye contact, reaching up to self-consciously adjust her ponytail.

"So, Miss Molly!" The Doctor springs up to the console, his hands fluttering over it with no clear intention of landing. "Your first foreign planet, eh? Your first trip at all, in fact!"

"Y-yes… I suppose so." A nervous smile shakes her lips, and I can see a veiled layer of excitement on her pretty features, barely contained.

"It's a wonderful place to start, I'll tell you that. A jungle, the whole place, full of _dragons…_"

"They aren't _exactly _dragons," Rose chides almost humorously, and it sickens me just how carefree her tone suddenly sounds, when moments ago she was behaving so coldly. I fold my arms, gripping my elbows. She may be the only thing I have, but sometimes I really can't stand her. My fingernail wanders the edge of my plaid sleeve, tugging at the few loose, fuzzy threads. I try and fail to tune out the Doctor's bright, noisy voice.

"Close enough, close enough. They're _brilliant _creatures, you'll see."

"They're monsters," I snarl under my breath, seemingly a bit louder than I intended, since they all glance over at me. Molly looks anxious, the Doctor concerned, and Rose… Rose's expression is unreadable. Rather than trying to understand it, I stand up, a hand snaking instinctively under my belly to support the weight of Rory's child.

"Amy?" the Doctor begins, but I'm moving as fast as I can, out and down the nearest hallway. It's not the most convenient route to my room—in fact, I realize as the slanted silver walls seem to lengthen and press down on me, I don't know if I've ever been in this section of the TARDIS before. Eventually the golden light of the console bay fades, leaving me illuminated only by the pale blue of the desolate hallway.

Sobs are finally materializing in my throat, and I part my lips to let them out. The first is ragged, stuttering, but after that they flow freely. My vision blurs. I should sit down, unless I want to trip and possibly injure my baby. Wincing at the discomfort of the movement, I lean against a wall and slowly slide down, the grey floor cold and hard underneath me. I press my palms to my eyes, mouth curving into what must be a horrifically ugly grimace as the tears begin to pour.

It's just all too _much, _really. Dealing with pregnancy, losing Rory, accepting Rose… and now with Molly here, with this demon deal going on and with a journey to what's basically Rory's grave ahead of us… I feel like I'm going to throw up.

No, wait. I actually feel like I'm going to throw up.

Heat rears up at my throat, and I'm suddenly choking back my tears as a horribly bitter taste—one that's become all too familiar in the past few months—begins to fill my mouth. Shit. I haven't vomited for a couple of weeks now, I thought that part was over… I'm doubling over, clutching at the wavering floor, my teeth clamped firmly together to hold back the wave of desperate nausea battling against my throat. Shit. Rose. Where's Rose? I can't open my mouth, can't call for her—

But then, somehow, she's there. Her hands are on my back, stroking gently, and I can hear her voice, soft and soothing. I pull in a sharp gasp, and my stomach ever-so-slowly starts to settle. I exhale fully. Her fingers move along my hairline, brushing coolly against my burning forehead, comforting.

"I'm so so-sorry," I sob, utterly disgusted at the wreck I've become. "It's just so… so hard…"

"Don't apologize," she replies immediately. "It's not your fault, Amy. It's not your fault. I know it must be overwhelming… but I'm always here for you, remember? You have me. You'll never stop having me."

I make myself keep breathing, until the sickness completely dies away. Nothing has come up—I'm okay. For now, I'm okay.

"Yeah," I mumble, "I know."

Neither of us really try to kiss each other, but I suppose my head just tilts in the right direction at the right time, and her lips come down instinctively, pressing against mine in a warm, firm action. I let her scent surround me, clean and fresh but also homely, comforting, a hint of vanilla underlying rich swoops of freshly laundered fabric and bordered by some flower that I can't quite identify—daffodils spring to mind, but I'm not sure.

I sigh. It's nice.

She pulls away quickly, and I allow her to help me to my feet, the usual hand flying back down to cradle my belly. Even though I'm still faintly irritated at her for earlier, I let her support me as we walk back to the console bay, where the Doctor is lightheartedly chatting with a still shocked-looking Molly.

"You two all ready to go now, then?" he clarifies, spinning on his heel. I manage a slight nod and a faint grin, and his reaction is to beam and flash me a double thumbs-up. "Knew you'd pull through, Pond. Okay, off we go, everyone hold on tight!"

I reach out for the nearest railing as he flips a number of colorful switches and the TARDIS begins its liftoff, churning and groaning with the sounds that have become so familiar, so welcoming. I let a larger smile tickle at my cheeks, a slight, warm glow inside of my ribcage. I'm used to these near-constant mood swings, by now—have learned to expect them, really. But the inevitable birth of my child is creeping ever nearer—at some point in the not-too-far future, I'll be back to normal, or at least somewhat so. I'll land on one side or the other; happy or miserable, content or angry. I just have to hope for it to be the formers.

Molly's face is a great thing to watch—I've seen a few reactions to the TARDIS before, but that doesn't change the magic of that one little moment, when it becomes clear that the machine is actually lifting off of the Earth, disappearing and reappearing somewhere else. It's magical, really, and even though I've long since grown used to it, I can still appreciate the wonder of discovering it in others.

Soon enough, the noises die away, and the console bay steadies itself. Molly shakily releases the copper railing that she'd been gripping with white knuckles, and turns towards the Doctor, her eyes wide and unblinking.

"Are we… here?"

"We most certainly are!" He dashes over to the door and throws it open immediately. I can smell the wave of jungle air even from across the wide room, and it seems to miss my lungs entirely, hitting me instead directly in the heart. All I can think of is the last time I smelled this, when we were leaving this place eight months ago, when the pain inside of me was still fresh. I close my eyes for a second, trying to push it away but succeeding only in making it all the more vivid. Out of nowhere, I can see his face before me, every last detail of it, and I feel an involuntary gasp grip my throat.

"Amy." Rose's fingers wind into the fabric of my shirt, and I give a tense nod, signaling that I'm okay, for now.

"…Yeah," I rasp, my eyes opening again and stinging with the brightness, "let's go."

The Doctor's mouth opens, and I know he's about to suggest that I stay behind. I silence this thought with a fiery glare, and hoist myself to my feet, shakily making my way along the glass floor. Rose guides me, gripping my elbow, right up to the door. The Doctor scurries out ahead of us, and Molly goes after, nervously placing one foot in front of the other, her hands at her sides and her quiet stare taking in every last detail of the greenery and alien wildlife chirping around us.

I brace myself, internally and externally. Waiting won't make it any better. I'm just going to go out, and it's going to be fine—I've done harder things, haven't I? I slept in the bunk below his, I've looked at _pictures _of him…

But this, this is the place where he died. This is the air that he took his last breaths of.

"Okay… okay." I force my leg forward, feel my foot sink into cushy, mossy earth. Warm, misty fumes waft around me, and I inhale deeply, as if forcing them in all at once will make their impact less painful.

"You alright?"

"Managing," I get out, forcing myself to continue forwards. _This is ridiculous, Amy. You're being ridiculous, _I chide myself, but that doesn't make it any easier. The Doctor leads, Molly trailing behind him and casting periodic glances over her shoulder as we sink farther into the woods, leaving the blue bulk of the TARDIS behind in the green leaves and shadows of towering trees. Peeps and chirps come from around us, but nothing big enough to be the disgusting dragon creatures. If I let myself forget where I am, it's actually rather pleasant—warm, but not really hot, damp but not overly moist, sound-filled but not noisy.

"You do know, er… where you're… going?" Molly checks tentatively after several minutes of trekking, when all of our hair is beginning to stick to our necks with perspiration.

"I've got the general idea," the Doctor proclaims, and I can't help but notice that his voice is a bit less cheery than before, like he's finally beginning to feel the effects of being on a planet where so many friends died. And it's his fault, really. He was forced to watch twice, to not make any move to prevent the deaths the second time around, even with the knowledge that they were approaching… two of them his companions, and two of them entirely innocent men, who insisted that they come along. My insides sour with guilt and pity for the massive load he's had to carry all this time, but I don't let it show—the Doctor doesn't want my sympathy, I'm sure of it. So I focus on my own angst instead, and on Rose's hand resting on me, the ground under my feet and the shadows dancing over the four of us.

It's just a little past solar noon, I figure, with the sun shining almost directly down and therefore obstructed by the solid barrier of pale and dark green leaves curving high above us. The bits of sun that do manage to touch us are lime-shaded with hints of golden amber, laced with twig shadows and stirring constantly in the light breeze.

"I can't believe this is… another planet," Molly whispers to the Doctor. "It just… it seems so normal!"

"Yes, well, Earth is the ideal planet, really," he offers by way of explanation. "Probably why humans end up as one of the most successful races in the entire universe. This place—the days are shorter, and the atmosphere's a bit thinner, but the conditions are still spectacular. Which is why it's so thriving with life. Still, I wouldn't call it _normal, _necessarily…"

As if to prove his point, a colorful streak suddenly zooms in front of his feet—Molly, Rose and I all yelp in shock, but the Doctor simply looks delighted, squatting down to grin at the creature now quivering before him. It's scaly, violet and crimson, but with feathers poking out from behind its ears and joints—it looks like an odd sort of cross between a chameleon and a peacock, highly unusual and definitely not from Earth.

"What—wh-what _is _that?" Molly stutters. The creature, apparently frightened by her speech, skitters off, and the Doctor springs back to his feet.

"That was your first alien, Miss Molly," he crows. "Other than me, that is…" Almost thoughtfully, he glances down at himself, a light scowl on his features. "Oh, well. Your first non-humanoid alien, in any case."

I can't help it—I almost laugh. The Doctor is encouraging, really—the way that he can be so ridiculous and cheery even on the planet where we watched four amazing people die. Still, the sound doesn't quite manage to make it out of my mouth, and turns into a sort of choking noise instead. Rose's fingers move down to squeeze my wrist, and I grip back, holding tightly as we start walking again.

We're getting closer. I can feel it, in my own gut as well as the tension increasing in the Doctor's face, as the last traces of humor from the alien encounter drain away and leave him nearly grim.

Then we turn a corner, and there he is.

"Sherlock," I gasp, even before Molly or the Doctor can get a sound out. I pull free of Rose, and stumble forward, coasting to a kneel in front of him. "Sherlock—Sherlock?"

I can't tell if he's conscious. His head is hanging down on his chest, face battered by dirt and blood, hair overlong and dangling over his half-closed eyes. His body seems even thinner than I remember, slumped against a heavy tree trunk, legs extending in front of him and hands curled at his sides. His suit is visibly ripped in the front, and I realize with a surge of nausea that it must be from the injury that killed him. Still, his emaciated chest shallowly rises and falls, and he slowly coughs, blinking and looking up at me through heavy lashes.

"John…" he rasps.

Oh my God, he's alive.

I actually stumble backwards slightly, my palms scraping in the dirt. He's _alive. _Sherlock—I _know _he was dead, but here he is, breathing and existing and—he's here. He's alive.

He's alive.

It's so unreal, so fantastic and unbelievable, that I actually do laugh. It's a strained sort of giggle, but a giggle nonetheless, and for one blissful moment, my head is light—I never particularly associated with Sherlock, but he was dead, and now he's alive, and that's so amazing, such a miracle, that I find myself full to the brim with absurd giddiness.

Until I realize what he's just said.

_John. _

John's dead, and no one brought him back. He was the only other person that, as far as I noticed, Sherlock seemed to care about—and he's gone now. Sherlock's a hundred times more alone than I am.

Then I hear footsteps behind me—slow, tentative, barely more than a series of light brushes against the undergrowth of the jungle, followed by a tiny, meek, disbelieving voice.

_"Sherlock?"_

I scramble backwards to allow Molly more room, and once I get a proper look at her, the expression on her face is simply _beautiful, _primitive and pure and wonderful to see. Her eyes are wider than ever, her lips parted slightly and her eyebrows tilted upwards in aching amazement.

"Sherlock," she whispers again.

And, somehow, it's only now that it strikes me that she might be in love with him. Why else would a small, mousy coroner with no immediate interest in TARDIS travel be so utterly, unquestionably willing to come with us, three strangers, just in search of a man who we claim to be impossibly alive? Yet along she came, and now I can read it in her expression, painstakingly obvious—she doesn't merely care about Sherlock. She adores him.

Seeing him this weak, this defeated, must destroy her.

Sure enough, tears are visibly shimmering in her eyes, and she reaches out, tentatively settles a hand on his shoulder. His gaze turns slowly to her, and he squints, his parched lips moving slowly, unsurely.

"Molly… what are you… doing here…?"

"I'll get the TARDIS," the Doctor calls quickly, and then he's dashing away from the clearing, moving much faster than we did on the way here. Molly is shaking now, clinging to Sherlock with a vice-like grip.

"You're alive," she whispers, tears streaking her flushed face. "You—you're alive. You're not dead."

"Of course I'm not…" For the first time, I can detect a trace of the cold arrogance that I remember in his tone, though it's disguised by slurred speech and a dry throat. He is indeed alive, but just barely. I bite my lip and glance over my shoulder, past Rose's concerned face, to where the Doctor has vanished into the trees. Hopefully he'll be back soon…

Despite my wishing, it takes several minutes of listening to Molly's helplessly emotional whispers and Sherlock's ragged inhalations before the TARDIS blurs into view in the center of the clearing and the Doctor springs out.

"Is he still alright?" he asks urgently, and I quickly nod. He crouches down and slings Sherlock's arms around his shoulders, ignoring the detective's halfhearted protests. I'm surprised by his strength, considering that he has such a slim figure, but he seems to half-assist, half-drag Sherlock into the TARDIS without much effort. I make sure that Molly follows, before hurrying in with Rose at my back.

"John—we can't leave John." Sherlock's voice is still vague, but it strengthens in its determination, and I feel a stab of guilt in my chest. I glance over my shoulder, to where Rose is quietly shutting the TARDIS's door. Her eyes are down, directed towards the floor, and I know that she feels just as sickened as me at the prospect of telling Sherlock what really happened, how John died for him.

"Don't worry about that right now," the Doctor says, though the anxiety in his voice is equally clear. He assists Sherlock along the long hallways, with the rest of us following slowly, until he reaches the makeshift hospital ward of the TARDIS, nothing more than a spare room with two twin-size beds and a set of alien medical equipment. Sherlock is forced into the nearest bed by the Doctor's hands, though he struggles desperately against it.

"Tell me where he is!" the dark-haired detective insists, his voice rising despite its cracked quality. "Tell me where John is!"

Every word is like a shot into my chest. I bite down on nothing, trying to suspend the wave of desperation suddenly building inside of me. Sherlock's eyes are wide, desperate, and I know that he'd normally be able to control himself better, but he's probably been alone on this planet for days—he's dehydrated, he's starving, he's injured, he's exhausted, he's on the cusp of insanity, and now there's only one word that's coming out of his mouth.

_"John!"_

* * *

"I don't know why he brought me back."

His voice is even. Measured. Empty.

It's an hour later, and he looks better, now, since the Doctor's been… well, doctoring him. Skin still pale, but I'm used to that, and at least he's changed into clothes that aren't torn and stained by mud and blood. Instead, he's in a similar but not identical suit that happened to reside in the Doctor's extensive wardrobe, sitting upright on the side of the bed that he refuses to fully crawl into. His head hangs, his pale eyes fixated on the cold metal of the floor.

"Come on, now," the Doctor urges, though it's clear that he wants more than anything to give Sherlock a break. This is a new sort of mood that I'm seeing him in—serious, but not angry. Solemn, almost. Never something that I would have imagined associated with the bright-faced alien who sometimes seemed like the most stupidly humorous creature in all of the universe. "There must be _some _reason—"

"I don't know why," Sherlock repeats, this time in a hiss. His eyes narrow dangerously, and his fingers tighten their grip on the edge of the bed. His stare moves accusingly over each of us in turn, not lingering at all on Molly, even though he surely has a much firmer connection with her than with any of the rest of us. "But now my brother is gone, as well as my flatmate." His voice catches slightly on the word _flatmate, _as though he wishes he could substitute it with something. I can't help but remember the last few hours that I saw him and John together, and how it had seemed like maybe they were finally discovering the entirety of what they could be for each other…

"We can leave you alone," Molly promises, then turns to the rest of us. Her expression is almost fiery, and it couldn't be clearer that she thinks Sherlock deserves space to himself. The Doctor dips his head in agreement, and I find myself hustled out of the room by those two. I only get one last glance of Sherlock's eyes, pale and lost, before he's cut off by the door.

"…God," Rose breathes, "he's so… destroyed."

Molly hesitates, tears swelling in her eyes again, then darts down the hallway in a random direction, shaking her head at nothing in particular and choking back sobs.

"Wait, there, Molly," the Doctor calls out quickly, abandoning the endearment that he usually precedes her name with. "Molly!" And then he follows her, feet pounding on the metal floor, leaving Rose and I completely alone with the heavy knowledge of Sherlock's presence behind the door.

"He really is awfully… _lonely,_" she murmurs, reaching up to tuck a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

I vigorously nod my agreement, my stare glued to the closed door. "He was an ordinary man, before all this," I find myself saying. "The Doctor—the Doctor said that he only came along because he was curious."

"And now everyone he cares about is dead."

"Molly's still alive," I point out idly, thoughtlessly. He does care about Molly, I think, somewhere deep down. Surely he does.

"Yes, but his brother… and John…"

"Yeah." It seems like none of us are unharmed, really—everyone in this TARDIS has lost someone, and that knowledge is painful, pressing. I miss the old days so _badly—_the days when it was me, and the Doctor, and Rory, and no one else. Just adventuring, moving from one place and time to the next…

But I've dwelled on that enough. I mentally insist on such, steeling myself internally. We've taken off from the planet where Rory died, and we're never going back. At least, I'm not. Not for anything. I'm moving on, looking to the future. I have Rose, who I know I could fall in love with if given the time. I have my unborn child.

I have the prospect of an adventure.

And then, slowly, everything begins to fall into perspective. _An adventure. _That's what I have ahead of me. Demon deals, resurrection—there's something else to it, a hidden meaning behind it all, a plot surely much bigger and more complex than I could ever fathom. I have no idea what we're walking into, but suddenly, with Rose at my side, I feel strong. Confident. Like I can take whatever's headed my way, meet it head-on.

My mouth moves seemingly without my direction, and I'm just as surprised at the words falling out of it as Rose seems to be.

"Let's go to Torchwood."

"Torchwood?" she repeats, raising her eyebrows. "Have you ever even—"

"No." Technically speaking, I've never been inside the building, and the Doctor was awfully reluctant to tell me anything about it. But River seemed to know more (I pretend that her memory doesn't shake my resolve rather notably—she seemed like she could survive anything, and now she's gone… but that doesn't mean she won't be back; our time relationship is far from linear), and I garnered enough from her to understand why I feel the need to go there. "But they might have an idea as to what's going on, right? If they're near that Rift, they must have all sort of unusual creatures and situations spilling through… including demons, possibly." I shrug. "It's… well, an idea, right? I mean, he won't like it, but… it would be nice to see Jack, too, don't you think?"

"Nice to see Jack? Should I be jealous?" she teases. I roll my eyes, and she laughs, a warm, soothing sound. "No, that actually sounds good. But I'm not going to be the one to ask the Doctor. I think we both know pretty well how he feels about Torchwood."

"Don't worry." I slip my hand instinctively below my belly again, the sense of adventure tingling more fiercely than ever through my veins as a grim smile settles onto my mouth. "I'm not going to ask him, either. I'm going to tell him. And he'd better listen to me."


	5. Chapter 4: Gwen Cooper

**A/N** _And here's my attempt at the Torchwood characters. Come to think of it, I'd never actually tried them before, but I suppose I did alright. There's also an OC in this chapter, but she doesn't play a very major part. _

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Gwen Cooper

But I'm lost  
I'm so damn lost  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"Earth to Gwen Cooper, come in, Gwen—"

"Shut up," I snap, jerking out of my exhausted stupor. Owen flashes me an incredibly annoying grin from his workstation a few meters away, then returns to the alien artifact that he's picking at, carefully jabbing at its fine crevices with a long, thin metal instrument.

"Leave her alone, Owen," Tosh sighs. She's a ways away from the two of us, sorting through a stack of files, but apparently Owen's irritating comment was loud enough to catch her attention. "She's been going through a lot lately."

Owen mutters something, looking disgruntled, and goes silent. I'm grateful for Tosh's help, but I'm steaming too much now to show any sort of appreciation, even for the one who defended me. It's true—the idiot has no right to pick on me for being so tired lately. What with everything I've been going through lately—Rhys's and my rather messy breakup just weeks before our marriage, a particularly massive bout of Weevils in Cardiff, dealing with Jack's sudden unavailability due to Ianto—it's ridiculous to blame me for spacing out in a sleepy moment.

But I should focus now. His words, however snarky, were a reprimand, and I should take them as a reminder to keep myself together at work. Though I have to admit, the thought of what waits for me at home—namely, kipping on the couch and trying my best to avoid Rhys, since we still haven't arranged for me to move out—is practically nauseating. I won't be able to just break down and let it all sink in there, either—hell, I won't be able to _anywhere. _I'm trapped inside myself, inside my life…

I'm drifting again, and I jerk out of it with a start. Damn my insomnia, and the fact that it's led me to go through two successive nights without any more than three hours of sleep total. I run a hand through my dark hair, fingers knotting in the tangled strands, and shove it back, trying to stop the stressed heat around me from becoming overwhelming.

"Gwen?" A quiet, solemn voice comes from around my legs, and I glance down to see a familiar, golden-haired girl peering at me with wide, apparently confused blue eyes.

"Hello, there, Elska," I greet her with false brightness.

"You're tired, aren't you?"

For a five-year-old, Jack and Ianto's adopted daughter really is alarmingly intuitive. I feign a smile and reach out to ruffle her topaz curls, but she pulls away, still watching me with her head tilted to one side.

"Aren't you?" she repeats, insistently.

"Oh—oh, yeah, I suppose I am, aren't I?" I'm sure she can see the heavy shadows under my eyes, and hear the exhaustion in my voice. I've fallen apart to the point where _children _can even detect it. Back in the police days, I used to be able to contain myself perfectly well, even during an overnight investigation, but lately, everything's been having a much more intense impact on me. It's aggravating. With a heavy sigh, I rub at my eye, suppressing another massive yawn. "Where are your parents?"

"They sent me to get you," she explains, with the remarkable articulacy that seems to be a unique trait of her. "Jack said that they found something—well…" Her petite nose wrinkles ever so slightly, her eyes scrunching up in her round face. "That something found _them._"

That's odd enough to bring me to full awareness. I tense up instinctively—unless Jack is just messing with me, and it wouldn't be the first time, then they might be in some sort of danger. I bite my lip and glance over towards Owen and Tosh in turn. They're both looking rather worried, as well, so I take a deep breath and nod to Elska.

"Alright, show me where they are?" I ask sweetly.

She nods and starts off, her small feet pattering on the concrete-and-metal floor of the Hub. I traipse after her, folding my arms in front of me and keeping a careful watch ahead as we move to the center of the wide room.

"They're on the surface," she explains solemnly, stepping onto the lift. I join her immediately, and the small platform takes off, shooting into the air. Soon enough, we're outside, on the sidewalk. The air is misty, faintly electric, like it's on the verge of a storm but can't quite muster the strength to just break out and rain. I glance around quickly, and the flap of Jack's long coat in the brisk wind catches my eye. He's standing with his back to us, arms folded behind him, speaking to another man, whose back is to, of all things, a large blue box, labeled 'POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX' in white lettering along the top. Ianto's nowhere to be seen, something that I try not to let myself grow too nervous over.

"Jack," I speak up, hurrying over with Elska trailing behind me. "What—who's this?"

They both turn around to face me—Jack, grinning as widely and obnoxiously as ever, and the other man, who's wearing a tweed jacket and a vividly red bowtie. He has distinct, sharp features—a pointed nose, prominent cheekbones, and a hard jawline, but his expression is at least as cheery as Jack's. There's an underlying layer to it, though—something that chills me a bit, a darkness to his deep-set eyes.

"Doctor, this is Gwen Cooper. I'd call her my right-hand man, but as you can see, she's a lady," he chuckles. I roll my eyes, gritting my teeth and getting out my own introduction.

"Gwen Cooper, like he said. I work here, at Torchwood." I extend my hand.

"Nice to meet you!" the new man exclaims. He looks down at my waiting hand, and a momentary expression of confusion flits over his face, before it's replaced by understanding. He shakes it quickly and energetically, apologizing profusely for his hesitation. "Sorry about that, so many different time periods and cultures, it gets difficult to remember what's the proper introduction—see, a few star systems away, what you just did would be considered an extremely obscene gesture—"

"This is the Doctor," Jack cuts in. "I'll just cheat and say that, yes, it is just 'the Doctor,' though he's gonna be disappointed in that."

The man, the Doctor, does indeed seem a bit brought-down. "Yes, well, I do like it when they ask, 'Doctor _who?_' Always those same words. It gets nostalgic."

"He's an old friend," Jack offers by way of explanation, barely restraining a wide grin, "and an alien."

_An alien? _I tense up immediately, pulling my hand away from his and snapping it to my side. All of my time with Torchwood has been spent being educated to fear aliens, or at least to be wary of them. And here's one looking entirely human, who Jack seems completely buddy-buddy with.

"Well, yes," the Doctor admits. "A bit of an alien. But not the type Torchwood likes to destroy. Though," he adds, voice gaining a bit of seriousness, "you shouldn't be hurting any of them, they're really very innocent creatures…"

"You have your methods, Doctor, and we have ours. Here, meet Elska…" Jack takes his daughter by the shoulder and pulls her up in front of him, clearly proud. "Ianto and I adopted her. Decided that we needed to get a bit more domestic than bloodthirsty alien-killing." He winks.

At that moment, the door of the police box cracks open, and out walks Ianto himself, a look of amazement spread over his face. My brows draw together in confusion. What was he doing inside of there?

"It's true_,_" Ianto immediately murmurs to the Jack, who raises his eyebrows. "He's really there…"

It's a puzzling thing to say, but my wondering about its meaning is cut off by anotherperson choosing that moment to come out of the box, this one a young woman, redheaded and slim save a definite pregnancy lump along her belly. She smiles in Jack's direction, and he immediately takes her in a wide bear hug, laughing warmly.

"Amy Pond!" he exclaims, patting her on the back. "Nice to see you, girl, how's it been? Don't tell me Rose got you pregnant?"

Her chortle dies in her throat, and her hazel eyes darken slightly as she pulls away from him. "No, it's… Rory's."

Jack's expression turns apologetic. "Well," he murmurs, "I'm sure it will be a beautiful baby."

"It will," Amy growls determinedly. A moment of tension sizzles in the air, then she relaxes, just in time for a third person, impossibly, to emerge from the box; a young woman with ponytailed, light brown hair and wide, curious fawn's eyes. _Bigger on the inside, _Ianto had said. My stomach drops. That's not really possible, is it? And yet, even as I stare in disbelief, one more files out. This one I recognize—Rose Tyler, the woman who had stayed in the Hub for a while after falling through the Rift from her own reality. Come to think of it, she mentioned a 'Doctor' from time to time—and Jack has, too. My eyes widen slightly as understanding strikes me. This, this Doctor—he's the one that Jack always brings up, the alien who he supposedly owes his life to.

"New people, new people everywhere!" the Doctor trills. He meets my gaze eagerly, then gestures to his plethora of companions. "Amy, Molly, and you already know Rose, if I'm right. Some of the best co-pilots anyone could ask for…"

"I'm not a… co-pilot," Molly, the shy one, murmurs. "I just got on the TARDIS, actually… I really have no idea what's going on."

"Oh, shush, you're plenty a co-pilot. This is my TARDIS, by the way, Gwen; Time and Relative Dimension in Space. It's a time machine," he proclaims proudly, adjusting his bowtie.

I shift slightly, my feet scraping along the sidewalk. I can't figure out why Elska brought me up here. The best I can tell, the Doctor and Ianto seem to be reuniting with an old friend of theirs. All good and fine, but that doesn't explain what I have to do with any of it.

Unless… and then I realize what surely must be the case. Jack's trying to distract me. Again.

Ever since Rhys and I first broke up just a week or so ago, he's been working at every turn to give me something to take my mind off of it. Which, I suppose, is part of the reason why I've been so damn busy. I should probably tell him that I'm too exhausted to handle any more of it, but if he thinks he's helping, I guess there's no reason to discourage him. And, even I have to admit, a human-looking alien traveling with two young women and an impossible blue box is quite an impressive distraction.

"Alright, then, enough dawdling. Let's see him," Jack declares.

The Doctor nods, and herds the three women back into his machine, the TARDIS. "Right, come along, then, he's right along here…"

"…What's going on?" I whisper to Jack as he gestures for me to follow inside. "How do you know him?"

"Like I said, old friend. You remember when Ianto and I vanished a few months back?"

"How could I not? We nearly got blown up just about four times—"

"Right, well, we were with the Doctor. Two Doctors, actually, but I won't explain that right now… we saved the Earth, basically." He says it in an offhand manner, pausing inside the doorway of the TARDIS. "From a psychopathic alien and his human buddy. It was a close call, but we made it. A few of us died—his companions, and two other humans who hitched along. One of them, Sherlock Holmes—he's back."

My mind is reeling. "Wait… you're saying—when you were gone, some of the people you traveled with died… and now one's back? Back from the _dead_?"

"That's what the Doctor's claiming. So, what do you say we go see if there's any truth to his word?"

Jack steps inside after that, and I follow, glancing over my shoulder to check on Elska first. She's slipping back behind the vague mental blur of the perception filter around the lift, and I just barely manage to get the sense that she's headed safely back down. I shake my head slightly. It's insane how Jack and Ianto let her run around the place so casually. If she was my child, I'd never take my eyes off of her. But I suppose that's one of the reasons why Jack and I aren't compatible, in the end—we'd never be able to look at children in the same light.

Why am I thinking about that? I shouldn't be. I can't be. I'm over Jack; I've told myself that several times. I need to find someone younger. Less burdened. Someone who can calm me down rather than heat me up.

Luckily, my train of thought is entirely cut off by the sight that waits for me inside of the tiny blue box.

I won't deny that my jaw drops open. The place's _huge. _Huge, full of gold and glass and everything that a science-fiction spaceship isn't. It looks like something crafted of a child's dreams, of all the little fragments and odds and ends that should in no way come together to make something that actually functions.

It looks like it's made of wishes.

"It's beautiful," I gasp, and Jack laughs, grabbing my hand and pulling me along behind him.

"Isn't it? I can still remember my first time in this place, oh, thought it was the most gorgeous craft I'd ever seen. Still do, really. And the last of its kind, I suppose—just like the Doctor. His race is extinct…"

I'm barely listening to him, just letting my legs carry me after him without thinking. All I can do is stare, try to take in everything around me. The TARDIS is the most wonderful place I've ever been, undoubtedly. It's like discovering the wonders of the Torchwood Hub all over again, but this isn't just unimaginable—this is _impossible. _This is magic.

It takes far too short of a time to cross the console bay, and then we're heading down a hallway (how can the place have _hallways?_), which is a bit grayer and duller, but still fantastic considering that it's somehow contained inside of a tiny blue box. _I'm inside of that box right now. _It's just so… so unbelievable, and I'm beginning to get a headache from overthinking its impossibility. After a short while, the Doctor, at the lead of our little group, pauses, and indicates that the rest of us enter a small room. Amy and Rose scoot aside as well, but Molly heads in, and, after a brief hesitation, Jack and Ianto do the same. I glance towards the Doctor, wondering if I'm expected to follow them.

"Go on!" he encourages me. "You may not know Sherlock, but there's no reason why you shouldn't meet him now!"

Sherlock. An odd name. That must be the man who came back to life, I realize, and I can't resist the curiosity that pushes my feet forward, leading me into the room. It's very white, inside, and looks more or less like a worse-quality version of every hospital I've ever seen, the most notable difference being that the machinery is rather spindly and otherworldly looking. It strikes me that 'otherworldly' is probably spot-on, and I'm so intrigued by the alien tech that I barely notice the man sitting up in the bed pushed against the wall.

Soon, though, I see that the others are crowding nearby him, and my gaze departs from the array of softly beeping machines to instead settle on him. He's fairly young-looking, skinny and dark-haired, with pale, slightly odd-looking features that somehow manage to come together into a rather attractive face. His eyes, ice-green under heavy brows, swipe over towards me, and a nearly invisible frown creases his forehead.

"Another Torchwood member, I presume?" he questions delicately. "Or have you been hiding even more companions in the TARDIS?"

The Doctor laughs almost giddily and shakes his head. "Two's my limit. Unless we're on some sort of adventure, of course, then I'll take more—which is, you know, where you and Molly come in. I suppose this is another adventure, isn't it? I do love those, they're like—"

"Sherlock," Jack interrupts by way of greeting, and gives a short nod and a wide grin. My heart almost stops for a moment—he's _not flirting. _His tone is neutral, _friendly_, and to this incredibly attractive man, too. I don't know what to think. Is it physically _possible _for Jack Harkness to not flirt with someone? I never would have imagined so before.

"Captain Harkness," is the even response. "Congratulations on your daughter."

"Oh, yeah, how'd you know that one?"

"Pale hairs present on your coat, from the height of a four or five-year old, perhaps a short six-year-old. Too long for a boy of that age. Stuck in a position that could only be acquired by a hug. Also there on Mr. Jones's suit bottoms; the child's attached to both of you, and since you're clearly in a domestic relationship, it makes perfect sense that she's your adopted daughter."

"So your skills haven't gotten any rustier with resurrection, then," Jack chuckles. "Nice one."

Trying to disguise the fact that my mouth is slightly open, I glance down to see that there are indeed some very fine, faintly shining blonde hairs clinging to the fuzz of his coat. Whoever this Sherlock man is, he certainly seems awfully observant. I watch warily, keeping my distance as the Doctor hurries back to the front of everyone, clearly trying to command the attention in a rather overly vigorous way.

"Alright, so, you're probably wondering why I've gathered you all together," he begins, then pauses. "No, alright, that line didn't quite fit here at all. I'm _still _waiting for a chance to try it, you know, but it just doesn't want to come out right…"

"Get on with it," Amy snorts.

He brings his hands together in a single clap. "Right, well, see, we know why Sherlock's come back. His brother's personal assistant managed to give Amy, Rose, and I enough information for us to realize that he—Mycroft, the brother—attempted a demon deal. A deal," he repeats, looking as wondering as if he's discovering the fact for the first time, "with a _demon. _And, by the looks of it… he was successful."

"A demon deal?" Jack repeats incredulously, folding his arms and cupping his elbows. Ianto looks rather skeptical as well, but keeps his mouth shut, silently taking in the scene. "No offense, Doc, but that sounds a bit… far-fetched."

"There's no other way he could've come back," the Doctor insists earnestly, and when Jack begins to object, he cuts in quickly. "He's certainly never come into contact with pure vortex energy."

Jack doesn't have anything to say to that, and I recall that 'vortex energy,' a concept that I still don't quite understand, is what lent him his own immortality. So Sherlock isn't under the same effect, then. It's something else. A… demon deal.

I give my head a quick shake, refusing to let myself believe such. Aliens, alright, those are plausible, but _demons? _Demons are something else entirely. Something supernatural.

I don't believe in the _supernatural, _do I?

"So, you've got Sherlock brought back by a demon, apparently, but you've got no idea how or why. And you just decided to stop by Torchwood for a cozy little family reunion?" Jack's tone is beginning to grow a bit more acidic, and I watch him warily, out of the corner of my eye, while keeping most of my gaze on the Doctor.

"It was Amy's idea, for the record," the Doctor explains. "She thought that you lot might know a bit more about the idea of demons than us, since we, well, have never seen anything like this before. But if you don't… well, I suppose we ought to continue on our journey to find out. Though I suppose you won't mind if we stay for tea?"

An odd light suddenly comes over Jack's face, and I swear he glances at me for a second. "Journey, hm? Don't think you're getting a little old for the adventures, Doctor?"

"No need to get hypocritical," the Doctor chides, and I see Sherlock's mouth quirk up slightly at his quick wit. Jack just rolls his eyes, but in a humored way.

"Touché. Well, just what sort of 'journey' are you planning on if you've got nowhere to go?"

"If you have a place to direct us…" He flings his hands out, indicating openness. "Just let us know. We'd be glad for a lead."

Jack nods. "Then if you wouldn't mind coming back to the Hub… just you, Doctor, and Gwen and Ianto, of course. Not that the rest of you aren't lovely…" He pauses for a wink at the general audience. "But it's much simpler to just take a couple down the lift."

The Doctor nods eagerly, and I follow them out of the room, sparing one last glance over my shoulder at Sherlock.

Was he really dead? And is he really back now?

* * *

"Disasters. All over America, and the whole world in general, at a much smaller scale." Jack clicks away at the computer, while Tosh stands a few feet away, looking disgruntled at being taken away from her favored tool. Owen's sneaking glances at us from over at his own desk, while Ianto is in another part of the Hub, occupying Elska, and the Doctor's companions, including Sherlock, remain in the TARDIS.

"Demonic disasters?" the Doctor clarifies. The hollows of his face are emphasized by the pale glow of the screen, causing him to look even more alien than he does already.

"Very demonic," Jack confirms grimly. "In fact… they draw some rather alarming parallels to the start of the fabled Apocalypse."

"The _Apocalypse,_" the Doctor repeats; "now, _that _is something. I've been to thousands of planets, and never have I seen a religion coming true. Well, unless you count meeting Satan himself, or _supposedly _doing so, I'm still not convinced…"

"It's possible that you still haven't. Hell, we barely drew the connection—I think it was Gwen who first noticed it, isn't that right?"

"Yeah." I swallow, trying to hide my how uncomfortable I am at being made the center of attention. "My parents were a bit religious, when I was young. I went to enough Sunday school to learn the Bible very well."

The Doctor nods slowly, interestedly. "So the Apocalypse itself is striking right in North America, in the US… and radiating out across the globe?"

"So it would seem."

His face splits into a grin. "Oh, brilliant. Apocalypse, the Apocalypse of the entire _world, _I wonder how this will go over… right, then, I suppose we're right off to America. A million thanks for your help, Jack, we'll be back to thank you if we do manage to save Earth—I suppose we still haven't figured out how Sherlock's connected to all this, but the answer will probably present itself in time, so that's just fine…"

"One thing, Doctor," Jack cuts in. This time, he definitely looks at me, a spark in his eyes. "I've done you a favor, now I want you to do me one."

"And what's that?"

"Take Gwen with you."

_Me? _I open my mouth instinctively, already shaking my head. "Jack, no—no, I'm sorry, Doctor, but I'm… I'm not interested. I'm perfectly content with my job here, I—"

"It's not for your good, it's for theirs," Jack replies briskly. "You'll be able to protect them, if they do come into contact with anything dangerous. Whether or not there are demons over in America, there's no denying that some major shit is going down. The TARDIS needs someone prepared to fight… who won't be looking for a peaceful solution at every corner," he adds, eyeing the slightly offended-looking Doctor rather meaningfully.

"Well, the TARDIS is awfully full, but I suppose we could try to fit one more…"

"No," I laugh humorlessly. "I told you, I'm not going to."

"Consider it an assignment," Jack offers. "You'll be coming back here in time, don't worry, but for now, I want you to go with the Doctor. It'll be fun—you learn a lot from that man."

_Fun. _Like either of us believe that he's putting me out there for _fun. _I reach out and grip him by the sleeve, my frustration hopefully clear in my eyes. "Do you mind if we talk for a second?" I ask tightly.

The last of the humor melts from his face, and he nods stiffly.

"We'll be back in a moment," I tell the Doctor, then march Jack off to his office, my feet pounding out a sharp staccato on the floor. I hear Owen's laugh from behind me—he obviously knows that I'm about to give Jack shit, so of course he chooses to think that such a thing is funny. Frustration pounds inside of me, boiling in my stomach, and by the time we're far out of earshot from everyone else, I'm practically steaming.

"Okay," I hiss, stepping as close to him as I can. He's a bit taller than me, which is inconvenient, but I try my best to stand up straight and stiff. "You need to start minding your own business."

"You are my business, Gwen." He sounds almost tired. "You know that you haven't been the same since you broke it off with Rhys—"

"_Haven't been the same? _Of course I bloody well haven't been the same, we were going to get _married! _If you think that someone can recover that quickly from a relationship, then you need to learn what love is really about." It's making my skin tingle a bit, to be so close to Jack Harkness, shouting things about love, but I try not to let it get to me. I need to be angry at him right now.

"This is exactly what I mean!" he insists. "Staying in here, you're just cooping up your emotions, making them worse. You need to get out there. Distract yourself!"

"I don't want a distraction! This job is my distraction! Torchwood is my distraction, _you're _my distraction!"

He freezes up for a second, and I'm sure I'm breathing heavily enough for him to taste it. I stare, unblinking, waiting for him to make his move, even as my stomach writhes with distress. _What the hell did I say that for? Why? Am I really that much of an idiot? _And, suddenly, I _do _want to get out of here—go away with the Doctor, Sherlock, whoever, just get away from all this. Jack's right. Torchwood does have too much of Rhys connected to it—I don't know if I can stand it much longer.

"Gwen," Jack finally murmurs, quiet but even. I know what's coming, and I can't prevent the color from rising to my cheeks, heating and prickling at my skin. "Did you… did you break up with Rhys because of me?"

"No." I say it immediately, and it drops into the air, physically heavy. Something shifts in his eyes, and I like to think that maybe it's disappointment, but I know it's not. He's relieved. He doesn't want me coming after him, not anymore. If he ever was interested in me, he's not anymore. He has Ianto, and Elska. The last things he wants is me on his tail.

"No," I repeat, my voice even stronger. My hands, which have unconsciously drifted towards him, snap back to my sides, and I tilt my chin up, eyes flashing. "I did it for Torchwood."

I turn on my heel and stride away, not pausing to see if he follows. Everything inside me is a tangled mass of confused emotions, and something like tears are hammering behind my eyes, but I push them aside, push it all aside as I approach the Doctor.

"I'm ready," I say, as evenly as possible. "Let's go."

"Now?" His eyebrows, raised in surprise, make for a rather comical expression when coupled with his bowtie, but I don't laugh, just nod.

"Now."

"Well—alright, I suppose…"

"Take care of her, Doctor!" Jack's voice rings out from the entrance to his office, and I flash a glare in his direction to see that he's leaning against the wall, grinning and waving. "She's one of my best!"

"Will do, Cap." The Doctor beams and salutes, then skips over to the lift and gestures that I join him. "It's just right over here, right?"

"Yeah." I step on next to him, and the platform begins to rise, the Hub disappearing below me. Halfway up, I wonder if maybe I should have lingered, said goodbye to Owen and Tosh and Ianto—said goodbye to Elska—but I don't want to prolong this. I need a clean break, and it's not like I'll be leaving forever, after all.

I won't, will I? It's not dangerous enough to threaten my life?

No, of course not. I'll be fine. Jack and Ianto have traveled with the Doctor before, and even if they seemed a bit initially dejected upon their return, that doesn't mean anything. Like Jack, I need to get away from everything, and this is the perfect opportunity. I'd be an idiot not to take it when it presents itself so conveniently in front of me.

We reach the top, and the Hub completely vanishes beneath us, the gap sealing itself off into flawless sidewalk. I inhale strongly and look up, squinting into the brisk breeze.

The Hub is behind me, and the TARDIS ahead.

I'm ready.


	6. Chapter 5: Molly Hooper

**A/N** _First review, thank you!_

**Thanks to** _Guest_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Molly Hooper

Oh, I wish it was over  
And I wish you were here  
Still I'm hoping that somehow  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"You know, I've never been to America before." I half-smile, shrugging my shoulders almost embarrassedly as I glance shyly at the Doctor from underneath my eyelashes. "I hear that it's nice there, but I never really had the money."

"Never been to America?" he repeats incredulously. His enthusiasm is warming—many people, when I try to talk to them, send me off with a condescending remark or only a tight, humorless nod, but the Doctor seems like he actually cares about what I have to say, really wants to know what's going on in my head. "Oh, but it's fantastic there! The things that Americans have done, you wouldn't believe it…" His hands gesticulate wildly above the TARDIS console as he begins to detail the many exploits of the American people, and Amy has to reach over and stop him from accidentally hitting a large red button.

"Careful where you're flailing, there," she smirks, then glances over at Rose. "Did yours do that, too?"

"Not as severely," the blonde says, grinning softly.

The Doctor's face screws up into a mask of good-humored frustration. "Now, come on, all of you chattering like a flock of mother hens. For future reference, two is absolutely, definitely, _completely _my limit. Not—_four._ Not that I mind you being here, Gwen. You haven't traveled this way before, by any chance?"

"Oh—no, definitely not." She shakes her head quickly, eyes wide. "It's all new to me—just like it is to… Molly, right?"

"That's it." I beam at her. "So this is new to you, too? But, no, you're from—Torchwood—?... the Doctor didn't explain exactly what that was too well to me, I'm sorry…"

"And for a reason!" the Doctor barks. "Torchwood will give you the entirely wrong idea about aliens if you give them the chance. It's a bit irritating, really…"

"Only some aliens," Gwen shoots back, folding her arms. She has quite a temperament, I'm beginning to notice; assertive, not afraid to stand up to people she barely knows. "Jack has quite an infatuation with you, after all. Never seems to stop talking about his Doctor."

"Is that true?" Amy sounds incredulous, and perhaps a little too amused.

Rose, on the other hand, has a train of thought that more seems to follow mine. "But he's with that Ianto bloke, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes, he's _with _Ianto," Gwen agrees, "but that doesn't mean very much, not really. He'll sleep with _anything._" Her voice begins to hold a bit of excited spice that always comes with gossip, however casual, and the Doctor spins vaguely in place, staring at the high-arched ceiling like he's trying to tune her out. "And he's been saying things about the Doctor since the very first day I knew him."

"Alright!" he bellows, "we've been landed for quite a while now, what do you say we head on out? Get your first whiff of American air, Miss Molly. It's certainly different from London."

"Doctor," I murmur as Amy, Rose, and Gwen file past me, chatting lightly. "You're blushing."

"I—?" He blinks, then an odd expression comes over his face as he tries and fails to glance down at his own pinkish cheeks. "Well, I imagine so, what with that lot talking about me like I'm not here!" He's indignant, defensive, and I can't deny that it's more than a little adorable.

"Right, of course." I bite my lip for a moment, shyness struggling with amusement and curiosity, before finally blurting out a few more words. "So you don't—return Captain Jack's affections?"

"No, he's my friend, he's my _friend,_" the Doctor stammers, the hue of his skin shifting from watermelon to beet in about a fourth of a second.

I feel a light, tickling flush of my own set in. "Right. Just… well, curious, I guess."

"All you girls and your gossiping…" He reaches up and scratches at the back of his head, hurrying over to the door. "Scoot over, let's get out of here!"

I scurry over as he throws the door open, my breath tight in anticipation. But what waits outside the TARDIS isn't entirely impressive, I have to admit—in fact, it's just another back alleyway, not all that different from the ones I've learned to avoid in London. A few rubbish-strewn puddles lie around the cracked cement, and graffiti spatters the damp walls. I think I even see a rat scamper around the corner of the street, and I hold in a gasp of surprise. A wince, impossible to disguise, unwillingly flits over my face.

"No, no, that's wrong!" the Doctor shouts at apparently nothing, then steps fully outside and lightly slaps the TARDIS's exterior. "Didn't I say New York? And what's this, some sort of… little…" He gives the air a heavy sniff. "Iowa?"

"We're in the wrong place again?" Amy groans.

"Again?" Gwen repeats. "Does this, er… happen a lot?"

"More than it should," Rose admits, but the Doctor doesn't reply at all, just takes a few steps farther out.

"Well, alright, then," he grumbles. "I suppose this works as well as anything. If we're searching America for anything demonic, there's no reason not to start in Iowa!"

"Iowa," Gwen sighs. "I've never even heard of it…"

"Rose and Amy!" the Doctor exclaims before the two young women can step outside. They both direct questioning glances towards him, and he makes a series of rapid hand movements vaguely suggesting that they go all the way back inside. "If you could keep an eye on Sherlock—and, well, Junior—that'd be excellent."

"Oh, _Doctor,_" Amy whines, sagging against the doorframe. "You've been telling me to sit aside for weeks now. I miss the running."

"Yes, but this is more essential than ever. Your baby is due any day, Pond, and the healthiest thing you can do for both it and yourself is stay inside. Off you go?"

Amy's makeup-darkened lips sag into a pout, but she reluctantly pulls herself back into a full standing position and stalks off farther into the TARDIS, leaving an opening for me and Gwen. After quickly glancing at her, I step out, shivering at the unexpectedly chill breeze. It's damp outside, and the sun is mostly obscured by pale, smoky grey clouds that mask the skies overhead. Gwen follows me, then shuts the TARDIS door behind her, and squints up into the air like I just did.

"So, this is America?" It's obvious in the tone of her Welsh-accented voice that she's far from impressed, and I can't really blame her, though I'm trying much harder not to show it. I should at least try to be respectful about it, I tell myself, and I school my features into an optimistic expression, turning to the Doctor.

"Well, it's certainly… different," I offer.

He looks at me as though I've announced that I intend to dye my eyebrows bright green. "Different? Hardly. I didn't come here on purpose!" he adds in the direction of the TARDIS, sounding almost accusatory. "You know, you could try to bring me where I ask for once!"

"Can it…" I swallow, wondering just how idiotic the question I'm about to ask is. "Can it understand you?"

"I hope so," he mutters. For a moment, a light veil of shadow seems to settle like dust over his face, but then he blinks and straightens up, considering the stretch of alleyway rather pensively. "Let's see, here. Iowa. Why would she—"

His voice is cut out by a sharp yell, coming from just around the bend of the run-down street. It's loud and harsh enough to make me flinch, and I unconsciously step closer to him, only aware of my action when I brush up against the side of his jacket. I expect him to pull away, but instead he grips onto my wrist, seeming almost protective.

Wow. I didn't think that such a simple gesture could send my heart rocketing into my throat so effectively.

Another yell comes, in a different voice—this one is much easier to understand. "Careful, Sammy, that thing's no vamp!"

"Tell me about it!"

A split second later, a figure comes whisking into sight, its feet scattering dirty droplets from the puddles. It's not a person, I know that right away—its head is almost like that of a bug, but still vaguely humanoid, hairless and round, with small, bright eyes and practically tusk-like fangs.

Another shape rounds the corner of the alley just then, this one definitely human—tall, dressed in a light jacket and jeans, with dark, chin-length hair, as well as—most alarmingly—a huge blade that looks disturbingly like a machete, held high and poised to slice in his hand.

I choke in a small shriek of surprise, forcing myself to stay silent at the bizarre sight.

Gwen works much faster than me. In an instant, she's whipped a dark, heavy-looking gun out from under her leather jacket and aimed it at the strange creature, her features stone-cold as she cocks it and pulls the trigger without the slightest hesitation.

The creature wails and stumbles over its own feet as blood spurts from its chest, then collapses onto its face. A dark pool almost immediately begins to grow around its prone form, and I wrinkle my nose, looking away as sickness grips my stomach.

The man, who's stopped running, is staring at us in complete surprise. His eyes are fixated mainly on Gwen, and his mouth is partially open, the machete now hanging limply at his side. Now that I can get a better look at him, I see that he's even younger than I first thought, mid to late twenties, at a guess.

"Who _are _you?" he asks in a surprisingly deep voice, American-accented (which, I realize, is only appropriate considering our location). "How did you kill that thing?"

"It's called a gun," Gwen replies sharply, whipping up her weapon. "You might find it a little more effective than that knife of yours." I can't fully see her face from here, but it looks like she might be smiling a tiny bit.

"Well, yeah, but… a gun's not supposed to kill these things," he insists.

"Oh, yeah? Do you even know what they are? This is what me and my friends call a Weevil." She kicks at the corpse, and I feel the Doctor tense next to me. He highly dislikes violence, I remember; this must be exceedingly uncomfortable for him to sit back and watch as two apparent killers converse over a still-bleeding corpse. "And it's not from Earth."

"An _alien?_" he repeats, clearly disbelieving. "No, miss—this is… no way…"

"Did you get it?" Another rough American voice accompanies a second man rounding the corner, half-limping and rubbing distastefully at a dark stain on the sleeve of his upper arm. He's shorter than the other, with larger eyes and more close-cropped hair, as well as a face that I can't help but notice as exceedingly handsome.

"Yeah."

"I did, actually," Gwen asserts, raising her eyebrows.

"And who the hell are you?"

"Gwen Cooper." She tucks her gun away, then crosses her arms firmly in front of her, leaning back on her heels. "I work for Torchwood."

"Torch_what?_" the second man snaps.

"How about we all just… take a moment for introductions?" the Doctor suggests from beside me. Both of the Americans glance up as if seeing us for the first time, and I look back nervously, trying not to look too intimidated.

"Alright," the shorter man concedes warily, "go ahead. Introduce yourselves. We'll listen."

"I was actually imagining a more mutual thing—"

"We don't know if we can trust you yet." His tone is casual, but there's a clear tone of suspicion behind it. "There aren't many people who know how to kill something like that."

"Tell me about it," Gwen mutters.

"Are you guys hunters?" he adds, flashing a glare at her.

Gwen shakes back her hair. "I suppose you could say that."

"Definitely not!" the Doctor exclaims in protest, then releases my hand and steps forward to show that both of his are empty. "No weapons, see? We're not here for hunting anything. I didn't know that she had a gun, as a matter of fact, and I fully intend to make a rule about who can take weapons on my ship in the future."

"Ship?" The first man, the taller one, raises his eyebrows.

"Spaceship. Well, _time _and spaceship, but that's a different story." He's standing fully in front of them now, and he extends a hand to shake, half-glancing at Gwen as if hoping that she'll take notice at his century-appropriate approach. "I'm the Doctor, lovely to meet you—though it would have been nicer if you hadn't brought swords."

"Doctor anything in particular? Or are you just, like, the Doctor? Sounds like a title," the shorter man muses, "like the Ripper, Jack the Ripper. And he was British, too…"

A look of vague humor crosses the Doctor's features. "'He?' Jackie certainly would have gotten a kick out of that… of course, we don't associate anymore. I don't like it when people go on murder sprees, which is why you and I haven't exactly started out on the right note."

_"What?"_

"Don't mind him," I find myself saying. I didn't originally intend to talk until one of the others introduced me, but it's starting to look like I'm the only person who might be able to carry out a decent conversation right now, considering that Gwen's too busy showing off, and the Doctor's… well, the Doctor; social awkwardness and anachronistic musings are part of what make him the brilliant, slightly mad alien he is. "He just goes by the Doctor, and I'm Molly Hooper. This is Gwen, who just introduced herself."

"All three English?" the shorter man snorts.

"One of them is Welsh," his companion corrects under his breath.

"Nice observation." Gwen's definitely smiling now—well, more like widely smirking, but it's nice to see, especially on someone who seems so arrogant. "At least one of you has some brains."

"No reason to be like that," the Doctor chides.

"They're idiots, Doctor," she replies, sounding utterly matter-of-fact. "They thought that this thing was a _vampire, _did you hear that? A vampire. Been reading a lot of paranormal romances, boys?"

"Hate to break it to you," the older one growls, "but vampires are just as real as whatever the hell that was. Maybe more so."

"No, they aren't, and you two are probably more than a bit mad."

"Here—" The taller man sighs. "Let's start at the beginning. I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother, Dean."

"Oh, way to give away our names right off the bat, Einstein," Dean half-groans. He really is quite good-looking, but I try not to dwell on it, considering that he seems like a bit of a prick anyways. I know better than to fall for anymore insensitive jerks—I've learned where that leads all too well.

Sam shoots him an irritated look before continuing. "It's our job to hunt things. Creatures. Like… this."

"Last time I checked, it was _my _job to do that," Gwen retorts sharply.

"Do they have to be hunted at all?" the Doctor asks, sounding rather halfhearted. "Nobody ever seems to listen to me lately…"

"I listen to you," I say instinctively, stupidly, then hesitate. _What on earth was that? _It was an entirely useless and idiotic thing to say, I tell myself with as much fierceness as I can muster, determinedly looking at the ground. I don't need to advertise the fact that I respect the Doctor more than the others do. Just doing so is an extremely self-absorbed action.

"Well, yes, you do," he admits, and sounds rather happy with that fact. "Nevertheless—"

He's cut off by Dean, who looks irritated to not have a main part in what's quickly escalating into full-blown conflict, despite Sam and the Doctor's attempts to keep it calm. "Look, I don't know who the hell you guys are, but we're not just going to walk around telling you every little thing about ourselves."

"Dean," Sam begins, his tone notably stressed.

"Last person I tried to talk to, we ended up out in an alley with his knife at my throat, Sammy! Cas told us to be careful, so we're gonna be careful."

"W-wait." A thought has suddenly come to mind, and I bite my lip, debating whether or not I should put voice to it. "You… you hunt creatures, you said? …Supernatural creatures?"

"What's it to you?" Dean challenges, but Sam nods, locking eyes with me in a reassuring sort of way.

"I know it can be a bit of a shock," he murmurs, "but if you're familiar with aliens, then it probably isn't as far of a leap for you as it might be for some people—"

"No—no," I half-laugh, "that's not what I was… thinking of. I'm ready to believe just about anything after today, really." I can't look him in the face anymore. Instead, I let my gaze slide down to the pavement, my shoulders moving in an uneasy shrug. "It's… you've never had anything to do with… demons, have you? Like… demon deals?"

"Oh, _good, _Miss Molly, you're brilliant," the Doctor breathes delightedly, his breath tickling my ear. I bite back a smile, glancing up through my lashes to see that Sam and Dean are staring rather meaningfully at each other. Dean's expression is rock-hard.

"I'd say we know a bit too much about demon deals," he growls, folding his arms and lifting his chin. "More than we'd like to, that's for damn sure."

"Alright, so…" I plow on carefully. "Do you have any idea why someone might—might, well, make one? To bring someone he cared about back… his… his brother, for instance?"

Myriad emotions dance over his face, from shock to defensiveness to plain disbelief. He doesn't say a thing, but Sam does, his tone very quiet and solemn.

"Well, I imagine he might… not know how he can go on without him. I, um, can't really think of anything too specific, but—" His gaze drifts towards the still stunned-looking Dean, and his features soften for a moment, the next words seeming to come much more easily. "But I suppose it just comes down to fundamental caring, really."

There's a faint sort of tension in the air, beyond the light electric hum that hints at an oncoming storm. I swallow, feeling as though I'm missing something rather obvious, and the Winchesters both avoid our stares, instead choosing to focus on the dirty cement.

The Doctor shatters the silence, exactly as the first raindrops coast down and tickle my neck. "No, no, it wasn't _caring,_" he insists, beginning to pace, "it's more complicated, more meaningful than that. It has to be. Mycroft didn't seem fazed at all when we tracked him down and told him that Sherlock was dead, just a little bit disappointed if anything…"

"Doesn't really concern us, anyways," Dean cuts in gruffly. "I don't know what kind of wackos you are, but I don't think either of us want any part in your space-time adventures. We'll just be getting back to our motel. Good luck with your demon deals."

"Dean, they're not _wackos!_" Sam insists, gripping his brother by the shoulder as he attempts to turn around. "Listen to what they're saying! They're investigating a demon deal, and anything concerning demons could be important, after what that man told you about Lucifer…"

I almost choke on nothing. _Lucifer? _I can't help but shudder at the prospect—is the Devil himself real? Demons and aliens are one thing, but the _Devil… _fear, probably very delayed at this point, begins to tingle through me, and I force myself not to scoot closer to the Doctor, who's really the only person here who I'm entirely sure I can trust. The icy rain collecting on my hair and shoulders doesn't help, and I tuck my arms around myself, pressing my lips tightly together and trying to pretend that I can't feel the chill.

"Anyone up for investigating this inside?" the Doctor offers. "Maybe it's just me, but it feels like a bit of a freezer out here…"

"Inside, yeah, great. Just lead us to whatever cozy building you happen to have in mind, and we'll be glad to chat," Dean growls.

"Alright!" he complies brightly, apparently nowhere near picking up on the sarcasm piled heavily on the other man's words. "This is my TARDIS right here, hop on in." He raps cheerily at the vivid blue wood of the rain-streaked box beside us, and I see Dean's eyebrows rise even higher, while Sam just appears confused.

"Okay, so now we _know _you're crazy," the shorter one scoffs. "No way in hell are we getting into that tiny thing."

"Oh, it's bigger on the inside," the Doctor supplies matter-of-factly. "Very roomy, and nicely heated, too. Gwen and Miss Molly, why don't you two just go right ahead, I'll be behind with these two lovely chaps…"

"Lovely?" Gwen certainly doesn't seem to agree with his admittedly generous statement.

"Let's just go," I mumble, traipsing towards the TARDIS and glancing over my shoulder to make sure that she follows. She stares towards Sam for another long moment, her expression unreadable, then snaps her gun to her side and joins me at the TARDIS door.

We slip inside, and I breathe a sigh of relief at the warm golden atmosphere inside. Amy and Rose are nowhere to be seen, so I wander over to the console, lingering nearby it but not touching anything for fear that I might somehow cause the machine to malfunction. Moisture from the now-heavy rain outside runs down under my shirt, and I reach up a hand to rub at it, gritting my teeth against the cold.

"They were perfectly awful, weren't they?" Gwen says loudly.

I don't dare to look over at her. "Well… not really," I get out, twisting my ponytail uncomfortably. "I mean, a bit hard to get along with, yes, but… Sam was alright. And I'm sure Dean is just fine too, once you get to know him better."

"I'm way too familiar with that kind of person," she replies darkly. "Arrogant, complete showoff, knows his own good looks too well…"

I keep my mouth this shut. Presumably she's talking about Dean, and I personally didn't find him to be arrogant at all—perhaps a little tetchy, but nothing else. It's not as if he tried to flirt with us or anything, which is a bit implied by the last thing on the list that she ticked off so irritably. The awkward silence between us, luckily, isn't given much time to stretch out before the TARDIS door creaks open and the Doctor trots in, tailed by the two Winchesters.

They go through the same motions that I suppose I did—disbelief, checking to make sure that the exterior of the TARDIS isn't more expansive than it seemed at a glance, exclaiming that it's 'bigger on the inside' as if such a thing is a massive revelation rather than a statement of the obvious. The looks on their faces really are rather warming, and I can see why the Doctor likes this part of his relationship with his companions. It's where they learn who he really is, or at least begin to, and when he gets to see them stripped down, at their base amazement, any defenses knocked aside.

I wonder if he liked seeing me like that. If he took pleasure in knowing that I was so impressed by his practically magical craft.

"So," Dean starts once he and Sam have processed that the TARDIS defies several laws of space, "you gonna show us this guy who's supposed to be dead?"

"Right down the hall," the Doctor agrees, gesturing in the right direction. The three of them wander that way, but I stay behind with Gwen, not particularly wanting to join the large groups at the moment. I still have a lot to process, after all. Time to myself, or at least practically to myself, is sure to help with that.

Lucifer. That's the biggest thing on my mind, without doubt. Lucifer… they couldn't have been talking about some other creature by that name, could they? Perhaps a mythical being from which the title originated? From everything Dean had said, it sounded as if someone had tried to kill him, someone who had connections to Lucifer. The actual Devil would have been much more efficient if he wanted someone dead. Right? It… there's no way that the two men we just let into the TARDIS are wanted by Satan himself.

My palms begin to sweat with anxiety, and I glance over at Gwen, seeking some sort of grounding or reassurance, but she's lost in thought, her lips pursed and her fingers drumming on the railing. Without the Doctor in the console bay, it's much quieter, I can't help but notice. The TARDIS itself isn't entirely soundless; a low thrumming fills the space, along with something that sounds almost bubbly, like thick liquid sloshing around in a massive plastic container. This must be the noise that his companions get to fall asleep to at night, and a strange pang twists my stomach at the prospect, like some sort of reverse nostalgia. I _want _that, I want it so badly. Being able to travel with him. Be his companion.

But thinking like that is absurd. He has two companions already, Amy and Rose, and he's firmly established that he has no desire to take on any more. I'm only here to help with Sherlock—though, so far, I've truly proven myself useless. What have I done, really, all in all? Nothing. I barely even talk, generally…

The gold light is burning my eyes. I blink heavily, and a yawn itches at my jaws, but I keep them shut. How many hours have I been in the TARDIS? Going to fetch Sherlock, trekking through the woods to find him, patching him up and nursing him back to health, visiting Torchwood, and now coming here. Far too much for one day, and that's not even taking into consideration the fact that it's emotionally overwhelming, as well—intensely so. I've had more ups and downs today than I have in the past few months. Ever since Sherlock disappeared, my life was a gradual downwards slope, and here I am now—not twenty-four hours from when I woke up from a dream about him, and I'm in America, standing in an impossible time machine, waiting for two monster hunters to return from examining a man whose brother brought him back from the dead.

The sleepiness doesn't leave me alone over the next impossibly long minutes, and, what with Gwen's quietness and the soothing hum of the TARDIS, I'm actually beginning to doze upright by the time that I hear footsteps again. I snap to attention, expecting the Doctor, Dean, and Sam, but instead I see Rose and Amy, their shoulders brushing.

"Looks like we've got even more crewmates!" Rose announces, sounding half-anxious and half-excited. "Those American blokes are coming with us. It's going to be a full house."

"They're coming _with _us?" Gwen sputters. "Why?"

Amy explains this time. "Apparently we have common enemies, and they could use a… more efficient method of transportation."

"Though you should've seen that shorter-haired one," Rose adds good-naturedly, "he was having a right fit about his car being taken care of…"

"Common enemies?" Gwen repeats, apparently choosing to tune out Rose's comment. "Do we even know who our enemy _is?_"

"Moriarty." Amy's voice shapes the unfamiliar name, and for some reason it strikes me as a rather eerie one to have. _Moriarty. _Something about it suggests intelligence, evilness. Of course, I've never heard of him, and that fact is what leads to my next question.

"I didn't realize that we had some… Moriarty as our enemy. Aren't we just trying to find out why Mycroft sold his soul? Or…?"

"Moriarty is—well, an old friend of ours, you could say. Last time that we and the Doctor went on a big sort of mission, it was against two criminal masterminds, one of which is Moriarty. He's brilliant, he's terrifying, and he's _supposed _to be dead."

_A bit like Sherlock, _I can't help but think. I shake away the parallel, though—Sherlock, unlike this man, certainly isn't our enemy. "But they don't seem like the type to join us—the Americans, I mean, Dean and Sam. They're a bit… independent…"

"Apparently not." Amy shrugs, and it's clear that she barely knows more than me, even though she was apparently there while the Doctor and the Winchesters sorted it all out. "I don't know, it looked like they were pretty desperate for information, if you ask me. And we know more about Moriarty than basically any other humans on Earth. Or, you know, aliens, but I don't think he's quite freakish enough to be famous on an intergalactic level."

I force a smile as another wave of tiredness crashes over at me. "Right," I murmur, this time unable to contain the yawn that arches through my throat. "Well—I'm going to find a bed, if I can… it's been a very long day, I have to say."

"I can show you the bunks," Rose offers immediately. I nod my gratitude, and allow the prospect of sleep to wash away all of my anxieties.

Of course, there's no doubt that they'll be waiting for me as soon as I wake up again.


	7. Chapter 6: Dean Winchester

**Thanks to** _florafan199914_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

Dean Winchester

'Cause your soul is on fire  
A shot in the dark  
What did they aim for  
When they missed your heart?  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"There are a few things that I have to take care of before we just zip off in the machine, though," I remind the Doctor, glancing over at Sam, who's speaking softly to the pale, apparently resurrected man. "We got a friend waiting for us back at the motel—an angel, actually, and he's gonna be expecting us to come back unless we let him know where we are."

"An _angel?_" The self-proclaimed alien looks absolutely delighted. "As in—wings and a harp angel? Soldier of God angel? Never really believed in God myself, or at least not Earth's God, but if you've got a real angel to show me I suppose I'm open for—"

"Yeah, well—I don't think he'll necessarily want to be showed off," I mutter, "but the guy is a bit unpredictable. Don't be expecting much, he's not that impressive. A bit awkward, really. Awkward with puppy eyes. Sort of an unfortunate combination."

"Oh, I'm sure he's lovely." The Doctor waves a hand vaguely in my direction. "Off you go, fetch your angel—I could give you a ride, if you'd like…"

I glance quickly around the wide walls of the TARDIS, balling my hands up into fists at my sides. It's a spaceship, fundamentally, no matter how odd it might look on the outside. And a spaceship, no matter how try I hard to separate them in my mind, can't help but draw rather extreme parallels to an airplane. Just the thought causes a light prickle of sweat to threaten my forehead, and I shake my head quickly, forcing a grin. "Nah, think I'll pass this time. The place isn't far away."

"Fine, fine. You'll get plenty of chances in the future. Off you go, now, we'll be waiting!"

"See ya, Doc. Sam, don't wander off anywhere," I add to my brother, who barely looks up at me, nodding slightly, before returning to Sherlock, who he's way too interested in. It's not like he hasn't seen a resurrected person before—his own _brother _is one; hell, he himself has been pulled back up once or twice.

I suppose Sherlock is what we're here for, though, after all. We're supposed to be helping this weird little crew just as much as they're supposed to be helping us, and our demon expertise is where we're useful there. They're all wondering why the dude got resurrected—which is all a bit fussy, in my opinion, as long as they know _how _it happened, the best thing to do would probably be to shut up and not look the gift horse in the mouth. Whatever, though. If they want to get themselves tangled up in a whole load of shit, it's not my place to stop them.

I manage to locate the console bay and find my way across it, ignoring the presence of three women in it—the brunette one who wouldn't quit flirting with Sam, and the other two, the couple that we met in the little hospital ward. They aren't too bad-looking, themselves, especially the Scot, but I don't dwell on it.

"Dean?" the blonde checks. Rose—that's her name, easy enough to remember. "Where are you going?"

"Gotta go clear up a few things at the motel. I'll be back soon," I throw casually over my shoulder, pushing open the door of the TARDIS and stepping out.

It's raining. That's the first thing I notice. Clouds have completely closed over the evening sky since we entered the impossible box, hurrying its transformation to night, and I can barely see three feet in front of me. Dark, rattling moisture streaks the bricks of the alley walls around us and batters at my jacket, soaking my hair and neck in instants. I grit my teeth against it and squint into the dimness. Maybe I should have accepted the Doctor's ride—after all, it seemed warm and light in there, while out here it's cold and dark as shit. I shake it aside, though. I could use some time to myself, and, for some reason, I want to be able to talk to Cas in real privacy before I go about introducing him to everyone else.

The trek back seems to take longer than it should, until at one point I'm wondering whether I might actually have passed the right block. But then I can see the flickering neon sign through the noisy gale, topping the sad-looking little row of rooms. Cas must be in there somewhere, waiting for us to get back. That twist in my stomach, the same one from the day when he first agreed to hang around and look out for us, comes back, and I try to ignore it, just mindlessly forcing my feet forward.

It's no drier under the motel's awning than it is in the empty street. Wind is lashing the rain all the hell over the place, and I can tell that at least some houses are gonna be flooded. It's like some kind of friggin' hurricane, right in the middle of Iowa. I fumble with the door handle, struggling to get inside, but a harsh voice interrupts me.

"What do you think you're doing?"

It's so low, so fierce, that it takes me a moment to realize that it's Cas who's speaking. I whip around and find his bright blue eyes centimeters away from mine, his furious face close enough that I can feel his breath on my cheeks. My own breath freezes in my lungs, and I stumble backwards, crashing against the still-locked door of our motel room.

"Dude, back off. What's up?"

"That man. The Doctor. How do you know you can trust him?"

"I…" I swallow. There's no reason, absolutely no reason at all for him to be freaking out like this. I step sideways, moving away from the wall, and back away into the street, trying to gain some sort of distance from his powerful, angry presence. But he only stalks after me, his tan trench coat stained dark by the rain, his hair plastered across his face.

"Everything about this man is suspicious!" he insists. "You need…" Then his expression flickers for a moment, and he takes a deep breath, straightening up and letting his voice smooth out just a bit. "You need to look at this rationally. He could be part of the very people who are trying to kill you."

"Hold on, here, dude, how do you even know about the Doctor? I was just coming to tell you about—"

"I know you were. Do you think I take my eyes off of you and your brother for even a _moment? _I saw it all happen, but I could hardly expose myself, realizing how untrustworthy this creature is! I don't know what sort of monster he is, but he isn't human, and you can't rely on him. I'll retrieve Sam and bring him back, and we can move away from here before something happens."

"Cas," I interrupt, hoping that my tone is even. "We're not going nowhere just yet, okay? You need to calm down. It's not like he's just a creeper in a white van, he's got friends, one of who killed the thing we were hunting and apparently has the hots for Sam, too. They're the only lead we have. You're great, man, you're awesome at protecting us and all, but we can't just rely on you. We need to actually try to figure out what's going on."

"The way to 'figure out what's going on' is not to throw yourself so idiotically into the danger! You can't risk this, Dean." His voice rasps on my name, like he struggles in saying it, and I raise an eyebrow. I don't know how to interpret this—any of this. He's acting freaking insane. _Paranoid. _And it's pissing me off, I can't deny that. The warm feeling in my stomach is long gone, boiled away. There's no reason that he needs to be such a dick, just because Sam and I decide to make a move of our own. No reason at all.

"Look, why is it such a big deal to you, anyways?" I finally demand. "It's mine and Sam's business alone, right? You don't have any reason to freak out about it so much. We know we can trust the Doctor, so we're going with him. You don't have any reason to have a problem with that, but if you do, then feel perfectly free to flit off." My heart is racing, and I realize that I'm yelling. I don't feel guilty. If he's gonna shout at me, right off the bat, then I have all the reason in the world to retaliate.

"Maybe I will just _flit off_," he snarls. "I thought that you and Sam were smart. I thought you knew what was good for you."

"And I thought that you knew how to treat us like freaking adults!"

"I thought you _were _adults."

I blink in disgusted astonishment, trying to come up with something to say in response to that, though nothing can quite capture the volume of my absolute frustration. But then I realize that I'm staring at nothing—the flap of his wings must have been lost in the storm, because there's nothing there now, only dark gray sheets of rain.

"Damn it!" I bellow at nothing, as loud as I can. My fingernails bite angrily into the flesh of my palms. "Son of a _bitch!_"

There's no response, of course, and I stumble back over to the wall of the motel, leaning my head against the cool stone and breathing slowly. There's nothing else I can do right now. He'll come back eventually—he has to, right? Of course he has to. He's not stupid. He knows that we won't make it without him. God, why did I say anything different? I'm an idiot. _I'm an idiot. Cas, come back. Come on, dude. Please. _

He doesn't listen to the pleas coming out from me, silent or spoken, and I'm half-relieved. I don't want to see him again right now. I'm still burning on the inside, and I need to cool down. Need to take a break.

_Take a break from it all, dammit… _it's just one thing after another, really, these days—never any time to breathe. Then again, it's been ages since there _has _been rest time. Years…

And apparently I'm not getting that break now, either. The TARDIS chooses this moment to blur and groan into existence in the middle of the parking lot, its blue paint as vibrant as any of the cars' metal. I know they're expecting me to come in, so I trudge towards it, trying and failing to shake off the chill of the rain.

I brush past the Impala on my way, and I hesitate for a second, glancing over her subtle, dark sheen. My hand drifts out and rests on her hood, seemingly of my own accord, and I close my eyes for a moment, muttering quickly and almost ashamedly.

"Seriously, though, Cas—if you could… keep an eye on my baby here, I think we'd both really appreciate it. She doesn't have any part in this, you know she doesn't. So… do me a favor and make sure that she doesn't get scratched up or stolen or anything, alright?"

There's no reply, of course, and I force my eyes open and my hand back to my side. I'm done. Done trying to talk to Cas. I told him he could leave, so he left—it's simple enough. Maybe, I theorize, he was even wanting to get out of here for a while, and I was just holding him back with my requests that he take care of Sam and I.

For some reason, rather than making me feel sad or guilty, such a prospect only solidifies the residual anger lurking around my chest. I grit my teeth as I rap on the rain-streaked door of the TARDIS, and the Doctor opens it a half second later, looking unreasonably cheery.

"Had a nice chat with your angel?" he inquires. "He coming along, then?" He looks over my shoulder, as if expecting to see some sort of winged form in the parking lot, but, I know, his eyes are greeted only by emptiness.

"Wouldn't call it a _nice chat,_" I mutter, shouldering past him. Everyone's in the console bay now except for Molly and Sherlock, and it's a bit crowded, though not overly so. Not as much as it would be if Cas were here.

My eyes move over our ragtag band of allies. Three women and a time-traveler. All of whom Cas implied to be deceitful. As hard as I try, I can't see darkness in any of their faces—except for the Gwen chick, maybe, but it's more casual than threatening. Probably more showing off for Sam than anything else. I wonder if he's noticed how he's caught her attention, but decide not to comment on it for the time being—he'll figure it out if and when he does. No need to rush things like that.

"Where's Cas?" Sam asks immediately, as I descend into the wide, main area of the huge gold room.

I shoot him a look. "Cas ain't coming."

_"What?"_

"He left. Decided that we weren't worth his time, apparently—shouted a bit, very nearly swore at me. I'm almost proud of the dude."

"Dean—what did you say to him?" Sam sounds almost angry, angry at _me, _and I can't help but feel defensive, even though I already wish a million times over that I hadn't said everything that I did back there.

"What do you imagine? I didn't tell him to fuck off, if that's what you're thinking, just that maybe he could learn that we aren't _entirely _his responsibility, and that we can take care of ourselves from time to time."

"Take care of ourselves? Do you even realize how many times we'd be dead if not for him?"

I don't reply. The truth is that I do realize—I realize it all too vividly. We owe just about everything we have and more beyond that to Cas, and he barely ever gets so much as a pat on the back. I try not to think about it. I'm already sickened from the argument with him—I don't need to get on Sam's bad side, too. So I suffice to shrug, casting my eyes down to show that I'm far from proud of my mistake.

"So, no angel," the Doctor sighs, "but still two lovely demon hunters! Speaking of which… Dean, why don't you tell us the whole story about this man who tried to kill you?"

"There's nothing _to _tell," I reply, shrugging. "He stepped out back of the bar we were in, I followed, and the next thing I know I'm pinned to the wall and he's spouting shit about Lucifer and Moriarty into my face."

The Doctor nods, and begins to pace, his brow furrowed and his eyes intense as they stare into the nothingness before him. "Then we really don't have any leads at all. He could be anywhere—any of them could be anywhere at all, this man or Lucifer or any other enemies who we might have. The _Devil… _that really is spectacular, the Devil, that's going to take some getting used to…"

"There are ways to find Lucifer," I find myself saying, the words thick on my tongue.

"Crowley's not going to help us out again, even if we could find him," Sam speaks up, but I shoot him down with a glare.

"I'm not thinking of Crowley. It could be any demon. All of them serve him—_all _of them, we've learned better than to believe that there are any special snowflakes—and that means that all of them have probably got at least some sort of clue as to what the whole master plan is at the moment."

"Right, and we can absolutely just pull over a random demon and give it a full-on inquisition, and it'll tell us everything it knows!" Sam spits sarcastically, impatience becoming more and more vivid in his tone.

"Well, I'd call it more of an interrogation than an inquisition," I mutter.

They all realize what I mean at the same time. I can tell by the alarmed shift in the Doctor's expression more than anything else, the desperate shake of his head.

"No, no, no, and a bit of extra no," he replies sharply, absolutely adamant. "I'm not going to stand up for any sort of torture. Not of anyone."

"These are _demons!_" I fire back. I round on him, my short temper fueled by Cas's absence. "These aren't people! These are nothing like people!"

I expect him to back down, since he seems a bit soft, but he does the opposite. The awkward, doddering, skinny British man seems to steel up, hissing at me through gritted teeth. His hair shades his eyes, and they glitter darkly, a silent warning to match the venom of his words.

"You mean they're nothing like _humans. _Every creature is a person, and every creature deserves equal treatment."

"Oh, yeah? I bet you just think that we're blindly _racist _or some shit, don't you, Doc? You assume that we don't know what the hell we're talking about. Well, there was a demon we met once. It took some convincing, but after a while, we thought we could trust her. She saved our lives, and more than once. But guess what? She was working against us the _whole damn time, _and it's her fault now that Lucifer is on the loose at all. You, on the other hand, don't know _shit _about demons. So before you go defending their sorry asses, you ought to do your research."

Gwen, Amy, and Rose are all watching me with wide eyes. Sam struggles not to say anything, his fists clenching at his sides. And the Doctor—well, the Doctor just looks dumbstruck. It's probably been a hell of a long time since one of his little companions stood up to him like this, I reason, and I can't help but pride myself on my defiance.

"So we're going to summon a demon," I go on, pivoting on my heel so that I can lock eyes with each of them. "It'll be easy enough to draw one in, they're all the hell over the place. And we're going to find a room in this TARDIS to get a Devil's Trap on the floor, and then we're going to stick the damn demon right in the middle, get some holy water, and singe that thing until its skin comes off or it decides to tell us a thing or two. Is anyone going to argue? Because doing so isn't gonna get you anywhere. I'll team up with all of you, but not if you're going to be softies. The whole planet is at war, people. We have to fight or be taken down."

This time, no one objects. The TARDIS is as soundless as death itself.

* * *

"I'm telling you, I don't _know _anything!"

She's sobbing—no, not she, _it. _The damn thing is an it, nothing more, and that shows in its eyes, which are black—tar black, oil black, like entrances to the Pit itself drilled into the face of the monstrosity's young female vessel. Its hair, formerly golden and springy, hangs in dampened, ropy curls around its pale face, and its head hangs, neck bending and exposing its shoulders, which, like the rest of its flesh, are spotted with vivid red welts from the holy water bottle clenched in my palm. "I—I swear, I don't know anything, he doesn't _tell _us…"

"Like hell you don't, bitch." I give the plastic bottle an ominous shake, and the water sloshes inside of it, causing the demon to groan and twist, hands straining uselessly against the ropes tying it to a chair, which are braided with thin iron wires. I crouch down, so that I'm at eye level with it. I know that not a trace of distress shows in my face, that I'm cold, calm. I don't know where this sudden, even lack of empathy came from—no, that's not true. If I'm going to be completely honest, I know that it has to do with Castiel, and at the burning resentment inside of me directed towards him. That he was able to leave us—it's like I'm offended, but it's beyond offense. I'm hollow. I keep expecting him to come back, to land in the TARDIS somehow with the familiar ruffle of wings, but there's nothing, and I'm done. I'm not going to wait like some little pussy girl. I'm going to take control of the goddamn situation, which is exactly what I'm doing.

"Let's try this again." I rub my thumb along the rim of the bottleneck, still not looking away from her deadly stare. "Option one: you tell me where your daddy is, and I send you to Hell in the most relatively painless manner possible. Option two: you don't, and we keep doing this until you finally end up at option one. Not much of a choice there, huh, sister?"

"I would _tell you _if I _knew,_" she insists. "It's pretty simple, Winchester. I never thought…" She takes a deep, rasping breath through the burned flesh of her throat where I forced the water down. "That you would be as idiotic as your reputation suggested."

"Oh, sassy." I jerk up the bottle and send a splash into her face. She shrieks, the noise high and earsplitting, and falls back against the chair, her head rolling on her neck. "You ought to watch what you're calling me. Idiotic or not, I'm in charge of you right now, and I'm not afraid to hand out a bit of sting. I've got all sorts of toys lined up…" To emphasize my words, I gesture to a small table beside me, which is decked out with a series of carefully crafted iron instruments—all painstakingly selected from a little antique store conveniently located in the Iowan town we'd been hanging at. "What have we got here… tweezers, scissors, a couple of sewing needles… I've heard that the eyes are vulnerable even for you; should I start picking the black goop out of your sockets?"

She shakes her head swiftly, blonde hair whipping her cheeks, but I pretend not to notice. I grab the rather dainty scissors first, flipping them open so that the barely-rusted blades glint menacingly. "Nice, old-fashioned flesh cutting. Gives us a break from the old water routine."

"I don't know anything," she groans again, but I'm past caring. Even if she is telling the truth, I don't have any reason to let up—I'm not hearing what I want to hear, so I'm protesting. And it's not like I'm harming the innocent. This demon probably deserves what I'm giving it, a million times over, and it's my pleasure to be the one to deliver the punishment.

"I. Don't. Know. Anything."

"You keep repeating those same words, like you think they're gonna get you somewhere," I chide. My hand darts forwards, the scissor blades clenched between my fingers, and then the long slivers of metal plunge into the clear flesh of her cheek, ripping it open so that blood spurts down to her chin and neck. She wails, and her arm clenches as if she's attempting to retaliate and hit me, but the ropes render it a useless effort. I slash once more, this time at her other cheek, for good measure, then pull back and let the scissors clatter to the floor beside me.

"Please," she whimpers, and I can see tears trailing down her face, mingling with the blood that washes over her pale skin. "_Please." _

I wonder briefly if her vessel is awake, but swiftly push the thought aside. I don't have time to worry about the pretty girl wrapped up inside of the demon. Instead, I drip a bit of holy water into her cuts for added sting, and relish her shriek, letting it pierce my eardrums in its primitive desperation.

"If you don't have anything to say," I comment coolly, rising back up to my full height and folding my arms, "then I suggest you just stay totally quiet. I don't like it when you're noisy."

"You're a monster," she gasps.

I laugh. I can't help it—it's just such a ridiculous thing to hear, coming from a demon's mouth. "Oh, am I? Look in a mirror, sweetheart, and then tell me who's the monster here."

"_Take your own fucking advice!"_

I ignore her. Partly because I'm sure she's wrong, but also partly—no, _mostly—_that I'm afraid of the opposite.

"There's no one to stop me from shredding you. No little angel on my shoulder this time." My stomach twists with my own bitterness, and I raise my eyebrows mockingly, toasting with nothing as I tilt the nearly empty bottle of holy water into midair. "Maybe you don't know anything. I can't say I care either way. But there's nothing to say you shouldn't go out with a bang."

I upturn the bottle on her head, letting it run down and scald her forehead and throat, sending even more screams into the high-arched ceiling of the small room. It's remarkable that she can even make a noise at this point, considering how scratched up her throat must be, from both use and the poison that I've been feeding her.

I begin to chant the familiar exorcism ritual, the Latin flowing thoughtlessly from my lips as my mind drifts elsewhere. Am I giving up too soon? But, no, I've been in here for going on two hours, as a glance towards my watch confirms. She probably doesn't know anything. And if she does, the threat of returning to Hell is surely enough to break it out of her.

But there's nothing. Nothing but wordless screeches as I send her spirit dashing back into the underworld, where it can writhe with all of its disgusting family, drown in the revolting fumes of its own smoke. The girl folds over, limp in her bonds. She's not breathing. I don't mind, not that much—I never expected her to be. Even if the demon had kept her alive for some reason before, I know that my interrogating would have killed her.

It's an odd feeling—I might have killed an innocent person.

_I might have killed an innocent person. _

And that's when it all catches up with me again, as rapidly as a snake striking into my chest. I might have murdered her. She might be dead, because of me—a human being who never did a damn thing wrong. I stare thoughtlessly at her, at her blank, staring eyes. They're blue. Far too bright blue, like sapphires.

I want to carve those eyes out. I want to crush them and bury them and never see them again.

Somehow, I'm on the floor, my legs folded underneath me, staring at the bloodstained blade beside me. I can't do this. I can't take it anymore. I've been through too much, and I'm going to go fucking insane if nobody stops me. And it doesn't seem like anyone's going to, either. The Doctor and his companions don't even know me—though they probably hate me now, for the most part, since I've turned their home into a murder scene. Sam and I… God, I don't even know what's between Sam and I anymore. But the one thing for damn sure is that he's too screwed up to even dream of helping me at this point.

Is there anyone left, really? Anyone at all? Even Ellen and Jo are gone.

I know who I need, though, really. I need Cas. Even if someone else was here, someone who could satisfy the very thing that I'm telling myself I so desperately require—help, comfort, advice—I know it still wouldn't be the same.

I just need Cas back.

_Come on, you idiot, _I plead silently, pressing a shaking hand to my eyes and trying to push back the girly-ass tears that pound at them. _Isn't it obvious that I can't deal without you? I've been relying on you, man. I can't do this on my own._

I never realized it, before—just how dependent I'd become on him—but now it feels obvious. I took him for granted. I always took him for granted, and maybe that's what caused him to go, after all. Maybe he realized that I'd never start thanking him for everything he's done for us.

_I'd thank you now, Cas. If you came back now, I swear to whatever's even worth swearing on anymore that I'd thank you until the end of time._

I don't even know what it is about him that I need so much. Is it his input on the insane things that I'm doing? Or just his presence, the knowledge of his safety?

All of them would be nice, I think.

But I'm done. I'm not going to sit over here and cry over some little baby-faced angel who wasn't strong enough to stick around with me. Even as my emotions wage a war inside of me that would be admired by the Horseman himself, I stand up again, push open the door only to see that Sam is standing right outside.

He doesn't say anything, not at first. We just stare at each other, until I can't bear the silence anymore.

"I didn't get anything," I say tonelessly.

"What about its vessel?" he questions, careful, nervous.

I start off down the hall. There's nowhere I'm planning to go but away. "She didn't make it."


	8. Chapter 7: Amy Pond

**A/N** _This story and the one before it have suddenly been getting quite a bit more attention lately, it would seem. Not sure what's causing that, but thanks a ton, in any case!_

**Thanks to** _Idiosyncrasy and azebra117_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Amy Pond

I breathe underwater  
It's all in my hands  
But what can I do?  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

It's quiet that night, even with so many people cramped into the TARDIS (the 'bigger-on-the-inside' capabilities of which seem much less impressive with eight occupants). Rose and I get our usual room, with the Doctor lingering around Sherlock in the hospital ward, while Sam, Dean, Gwen, and Molly get an additional bunkroom. Silence presses on the wide walls of the machine, which I gaze at vaguely from my position on the bottom bunk. The copper-gold waves of architecture, I note with mind-dragging exhaustion, seem to almost undulate as I watch them, unblinking, for what must be several minutes on end.

A sigh runs through my body. I should be sleeping. It's healthy, smart to be sleeping. And I wish I could, but it's like I've been overloaded, driven right past the point of tiredness into a new realm that causes my eyes to sting but not close. The child stirring inside of me doesn't help, what with its restless nudging and squirming every few minutes, usually coupled with either stabbing pains or distant nausea. I'm tired. Tired of the pregnancy, tired of the TARDIS, tired of the traveling, tired of myself. Tired of Rose, sometimes.

Rose is sleeping just fine. I can hear her breaths, falling like waves from the upper bunk. I envy her, perhaps more than is fair, but I don't dwell on being guilty. The last thing I need right now is to add another emotion to my already sizable bundle.

But the uncomfortable nagging continues anyways. I should feel different—excited. The Doctor is certainly excited, after all, and so are most of the rest. Of course there's that underlying layer of darkness, but it's to be expected, right? There's nothing wrong with being anxious about such a big feat. We're trying to overcome _Satan, _after all.

I can't even imagine getting used to _that _right now. My life has been unbelievable ever since the night with the Raggedy Man in my garden, but at this point I don't know how much more I can take.

As I lay there, emotions stewing and intensifying in my head, heat begins to build inside of me. Not sick heat, just nervous, desperate heat, pressing in on the walls of my lungs and stomach until I can't bear it anymore. I heave myself out from under the warm covers, hoping that Rose doesn't notice as my feet brush against the cool flooring of the TARDIS. My nightgown whispers along my legs and hips, and I rise to my feet, holding my breath and glancing at the upper bunk. She's nothing but a low, dark shape, rising and falling in steady rhythm. Good. I don't want to disturb her.

I tiptoe out of the bunkroom, grateful for the low, ambient light that always seems to emanate from the TARDIS's very walls. It illuminates my way, but just barely, its pale glow almost ghostly. I know my way around the machine very well by now, and it's less than a minute before I'm winding my way down to the console bay, my fingers trailing on the railing, which a slight warmth always seems to linger about, even when the TARDIS isn't in motion.

The luminescent columns in the middle of the room radiate a humming blue-green tint, the transparent cylinders within them moving up and down without any apparent rush or purpose, like they're some sort of pulse, perhaps the heart of the time machine itself.

Many people would find it disorienting to know that they were spinning aimlessly in the middle of space. But I'm so used to it at this point that it provides a sort of comfort. All around us, all around me, is nothingness. The deep velvety darkness of the time vortex, struck through with colors like the Northern Lights, scattered with godly handfuls of cosmic dust and tiny, fragmented spears of lightning. We are literally tumbling through infinity, and the thought makes me pull in a low breath, allow a small smile to brush my lips. Even the threat of Lucifer feels less ominous when I realize how much there really _is _out there.

"Couldn't sleep, huh?"

My eyes jerk open—I hadn't even realized that I'd closed them. Standing across from me, leaning in another entrance to the room, is Dean Winchester—the older of the two American brothers. He looks even more tired than I feel, with almost bruise-like shadows underlying his eyes and tight lines around the edges of his face. Older than his years.

"Don't see why it's any of your business," I reply. I don't care that my tone sounds irritated—I _am, _after all. I was just starting to relax when this idiot decided to storm in.

He shrugs and takes a few more steps forward. "Maybe it's not. We all have our secrets, right?"

"Right. Because telling you whether or not I could sleep was a _secret._"

"Alright, I get it, you're feisty and clever and all that. Let's not waste time, though. Screw formalities, and I'm done tippy-toeing around girls just because they got boobs. Amy, right?" Dean continues down to the main bay, his feet finally settling to a halt on the glass floor, only a meter or so away from the idly humming console.

"Yes," I mutter warily, watching him with distrust.

"Alright, Amy, how about this. I don't ask you what you're doing down here, and you don't ask me, and we just stand here in our own angst-filled little corners and avoid each other's eyes. Sound good?"

I've got no idea what the hell he's playing at, so I just shrug uncomfortable agreement. He flashes me a grin and turns around, tucking his hands into his pockets, so that I find myself staring at his jacketed shoulders. I realize suddenly that I do have questions I want to ask him—I know nothing about this man who the Doctor somehow thinks he can trust. I don't know about his relationship with his brother, about whether he's got someone he cares about and has left behind, about… well… his life.

I don't ask, though. Like he said, we all have our secrets.

And yet, now that he's down here, I can't possibly concentrate on… well, not concentrating. Instead, I flick my eyes around the TARDIS aimlessly, and find myself wondering whether Dean is as baffled as I originally was by how it's bigger on the inside. He seems remarkably laid-back about the whole thing—but that's only on the exterior, I tell myself. Remembering Sherlock's spectacular observation skills, I let myself watch Dean more closely, see if I can… what was the word? _Deduce, _see if I can deduce what's really wrong. Tight shoulders, okay, stressed—that's easy enough; we all are. Head slightly tilted down. Does that mean he's upset, or just tired? Or even that he merely has bad posture?

I huff under my breath. Fine, so I'm no genius consulting detective. I don't have any way of telling what sort of mood he's in.

He laughs, faintly, which takes me by surprise. Did he hear my frustrated sound?

"Okay, so you want to know about me, and I want to know about you." He turns around, setting his hands on the railing and watching me with appraising eyes, which shine vivid green even from all the way across the room. "So much for aloof silence. Let's go with a new tactic, shall we? I'll tell you a thing about me, and you'll tell me a bit about yourself. We can go back and forth. Not like we're ever going to associate, after all. Seems like we could both use a nonjudgmental stranger to dump our crap on."

"What's wrong?" I ask simply, that being the biggest question in my mind. "You're upset about something, that's sort of obvious, no offense. So… what is it? Leave someone behind? A girl?"

"Left a lot of people behind." He shrugs. "Got a lot of people killed, too. It's just all piling up, I s'pose. Only one I've really got left at this point is my brother, and he's pissed at me right now, so I ended up out here. My turn now, ginger. The shrimp." He tilts his chin towards my stomach, implying that he's talking about the baby. "Where'd it come from?"

"…My husband." I don't really know why I'm talking to Dean Winchester, of all people, but I guess he's right—I really do need to explain things to someone who I know won't take sides. And since he's presenting himself for such a use, I don't have any reason to turn him down.

His eyebrows fly up. "Husband? I thought…" Almost imperceptibly, his eyes flick in the direction of the hall I've entered by, and I know he's thinking about Rose, trying to reevaluate his impression of me and my sexuality.

"Yes. Rory… he… got killed, a few months ago. Just when I found out, actually." The words are numb in my mouth. Toneless. I'm used to them now, have run them over in my mind enough times that they don't carry their full impact any longer. "I never got to tell him about his child."

"I'm sorry."

"I wouldn't expect you to be."

"I told you, Amy, I've lost people, too. Both of my parents. Plenty of friends… people I cared about." He swallows. "People I loved, I guess."

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me." I'm surprised by how calm I sound, like the words coming out of my mouth are fueled by genuine uncaring rather than the mere dislike of pity directed towards me. "It sounds like you have plenty of your own problems to worry about, so there's no reason to…" A sudden yawn splits my words, and I barely manage to stifle it, my eyes watering with the reminder of how tired I am. My body seems to wilt slightly, like the brief conversation has tired me out, and I resign to return to bed. "…No reason to care about my problems. I'm going back to bed, now—I'm tired."

Dean nods. "G'night, Amy. Sleep well."

"'Night." I hesitate, my back half-turned. "I… I hope you feel better. About the—the people you lost, or whatever's bothering you."

"Thanks." It sounds like he's speaking through a smile, but I don't check, just shrug and let a second yawn materialize fully, heading back into the shadows of the hallway, where the blue beams of the console can't reach.

"_That guy? _Really?"

The voice freezes me. I bite down on my lip, my eyes focusing on the shapely figure huddled in the darkness. Her wide eyes flash accusingly at me.

"Rose," I sigh. "I just ran into him. We—"

"Just ran into him, sure. In other words, snuck out of our room as soon as you knew I was asleep and went to visit pretty boy, right?"

"…No," I retort, stung. "Nothing like that, why would you—? Just because I'm _talking to someone _doesn't mean that I'm going to start shagging them. I couldn't sleep. Neither could he."

"Oh, I bet you couldn't."

I feel sick again. Why the hell does she always have to ruin things? I was just beginning to feel happy, and then she has to appear, all in my face, unwilling to understand a tiny little fact. "We met him _hours _ago, Rose! Do you have to be so damn _paranoid?_"

"I'm not paranoid, I'm worried about you!" she snaps back. My eyes are focusing better now, and I can see details—her hands are poised on her hips, pale hair wreathing around her flushed face like a tangled halo. She's gorgeous, of course, but right now that only angers me, causes the upset in my stomach to rear and spike. "You can't afford to be taking midnight strolls with that baby, especially when there are _attractive men _involved."

Impossibly, I grow even more offended. "Oh, is that it, then? You're not jealous—you just think that if I fuck him, I'll screw up the baby somehow."

"I just want to make sure you're not off doing anything stupid when me and our baby are both depending on you!"

The fire inside of me crystallizes.

"_Our _baby," I repeat delicately, drawing out the three syllables as much as possible, trying to communicate enough cold fury within them to show Rose just how fully she's crossed a line.

It shows in her expression immediately. She can see that she's done something wrong.

"It's not _our _baby, Rose," I snarl. "It's not _your _baby. It's mine. It's mine, and it's Rory's, and you are never, _never _going to replace Rory."

"No, I'm not," she half-laughs, shaking her head in apparent disbelief. "Someone like Dean Winchester is, apparently."

Her wrist is gripped between my fingers out of nowhere, and I'm squeezing, my teeth gritting together hard enough to crack. I thrust forward, slamming her against a wall and pushing myself up against her, so that our eyes lock and our lips are millimeters apart.

"I'm done," I spit into her face. "I'm _done, _Rose. I'm done with your desperate claims and your stupid accusations—I'm done with _everything. _I don't know what you think we have between us—I don't even know what _I _think we have. So you've done me a couple times. So we share a room, and I let you closer to me than anyone else. That doesn't make me _yours. _That doesn't mean I'm in love with you. That doesn't mean that we have some deep connection, or that we're going to be together so much as a week from now. And it absolutely, under no circumstances _ever _means that you are the mother of my child."

I'm close enough to see the tears welling in her eyes. They're shimmering. Liquid. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. You just don't want to lose me, because I'm all you have left, you cheap _whore._"

My blood is boiling, and my veins spark with electricity. We've now insulted each other equally. There's not going to be any going back from this—every cell in my body is humming with the heat of the moment, even though I know that it was a mistake, I already wish I could take the words back. And yet I don't say anything. I don't apologize. I cross my arms and I glare, and I keep glaring as she pulls away from the wall, shoots me the most injured glance imaginable as she half-runs down the hallway. I can hear her sobs tearing into the silence.

I wonder if Dean heard us, then decide that I don't care. For several long seconds, maybe even full minutes, I simply stand there and let my body shake, heat radiating off of me in agitated waves, my hand absentmindedly caressing my swollen belly. There are tears waiting somewhere behind my eyes, but they won't push themselves out, even as I try as hard as I can to let myself just break and sob. Instead of release, though, I'm merely clouded by more and more exhaustion, until I don't have any choice but to traipse back down the hall, blindly, moving thoughtlessly for the bedroom.

Rose isn't inside. I don't know whether or not I expected her to be, and I can't help but be momentarily curious about where she is now. If she'll ever decide to come back here.

My eyes are closed before I even lay down fully. And it's then, once the hot lids have settled over them, that the tears come, as if the pricking burn was all they needed to commence the flow of moisture. A gasp clings to the walls of my throat, but I hold it in, my lips aching and trembling with suppressed sobs as my cheeks are coated with hot, sticky tears.

Damn it.

_Damn it._

I tell myself over and over what an idiot I am, how utterly stupid I must have been to say what I did, but none of it really seems to penetrate my numb exterior. I have no way of knowing the extent of my actions, not yet. So I struggle to keep quiet, not to let my whimpers filter into the hallway, where Rose or Dean or someone else entirely could hear.

Crying is exhausting. And, somehow, there comes a moment when my consciousness slips away.

* * *

_Putting it off isn't going to make things any easier. Come on, Amy, what's the worst that can happen? You just got into an argument, that's all. It happens to all couples. Doesn't it? Of course it does. Go on down, talk to her. Just get it over with, and then you'll feel better. You have to. _

My teeth worry at my lower lip. My eyes are still sore from last night—I woke up with tears drying on my pillow—and everything about me feels messy. The Doctor poked his head in a couple of minutes ago, telling me brightly that everyone's meeting up in the console bay and we're going to head out for breakfast, but the last thing I want is to go right now.

To go out there means to see Rose. And I can't do that right now.

But I have to. Hiding is childish, I tell myself firmly, it's pathetic. I reach out for the hairbrush resting on the small table parked next to the bunk bed, and begin to drag it through my tangled red mane, trying to disregard the fact that its bristles have a few pale blonde strands woven through them. Rose isn't going to have any way to brush her hair, a small part of me nags, just like she didn't have any bed to sleep with, anyone to talk to as she drifted off.

I glance in a slightly lopsided mirror hanging on the wall. Shit, my cheeks are still flushed, and my eyes look brighter than usual, almost fevered. They'll be able to tell that something's wrong, they definitely will—Sherlock especially.

"Pond!" The Doctor's voice rings from down the corridor, and I jump slightly, watching as my reflection's eyes spring open wide in surprise. Right. I need to stop delaying, just go out there and do it. Hastily, I shove a last few stray strands of ginger hair behind my ears, then force my legs to carry me out of the room and down the hallway.

The first thing I notice isn't Rose or even Dean—it's Sherlock. He's _there, _amazingly—still looking incredibly gaunt and pale, but I suppose there's nothing unusual about that. A few thin cuts run over his cheeks and jaw, and his hair is still longer than I remember, but other than that, he looks relatively normal for having been near-dead just a day ago. He recovered quickly, apparently. Molly stands beside him, and next to her is the Doctor, whistling softly as he turns his sonic screwdriver over and over between his fingers.

Dean and Sam are closer to the console of the TARDIS. There's something between them that's tense—Dean purposely ignoring the constant, almost nagging glances from his brother, but I try not to read into it too much. I don't know anything about them, after all—perhaps this is their usual dynamic. I've no place to judge, in any case. I've never had any siblings. Gwen, the woman from Torchwood, is spaced rather far away from them, in a way that I can't help but think might be almost intentional.

There's only one place left to look.

My stomach lurches as I turn to Rose, because it's bad. Worse than I expected. It's even clearer on her than it is on me that she's been crying, obvious in bright eyes and damp lashes and even a quivering lower lip as she tries determinedly not to meet my stare. God, she's not angry at me. She's not angry at me at all. She's just _upset. _And I want more than anything to rush forward and comfort her—to take her in my arms and tell her that I know how stupid it all is, that I made a dumb mistake, that I was tired and stressed and the words just slipped out of my mouth. I want to hold her and kiss her and explain that I need her, need her more than I thought, that without her I feel like I'm stumbling and falling, being pulled farther and farther back into shadows of hopelessness.

My lips poise to mouth the beginning of her name—_Rose—_but then she turns her head almost completely away, and, in a movement that I can't help but recognize as incredibly purposeful, marches right across the console bay, until she's up next to Gwen. The brunette, looking overly pleased with the arrangement, murmurs a 'hello' to her, barely audible under the Doctor's overly merry whistles, and Rose returns the greeting.

I bite down on my lower lip, hard. I don't want to dislike Gwen Cooper, but she seems pretty damn shallow. Those puppy eyes and gap-toothed grin that she apparently has to keep shooting at Sam are obnoxious enough, but Rose—I want her to stay away from Rose. I want everyone to stay away from Rose.

Then a new thought comes to mind—did we _break up, _last night? Rose and I? I rack my brains desperately, trying to recall if either of us ever said that it was 'over' or something of the like. Nothing comes to mind, but my memory is a mist of blinding heat and surging rage, so I can't pull out any particulars. What if I did blurt out something like that? What if I broke up with her, somehow?

I don't want that. I can't handle that, not right now. I can't handle _anything. _The only thing that was keeping me from going insane was probably Rose, and if I've lost her—

"So." The Doctor clenches his screwdriver in-between his fingers and taps it against his chin. "_Lucifer, _everyone. Lucifer and a mysterious blonde man."

"This is certainly shaping up to be an alliance where you're a good deal more advantageous than us," Sherlock growls, his pale eyes flickering over Dean and Sam. "You get your investigation of whatever brought me back to life… and we get a negative association with the Devil."

"Everyone has a negative association with the Devil, hotshot," Dean retorts. "It's part of his job description, you know, being the enemy of man."

"One of the reasons why religious stories are so ridiculous. His role, when one gets down to it, is merely to punish the wicked. There's no reason why this should render he himself evil."

"Have you had to deal with the guy? 'Cause I can promise that he's a real damn dick."

"Well, I'm sure we could debate the Bible for hours," the Doctor cuts in, "but that would be drawing away from our focus, here, which is to deal with whatever _is _real—not the, well, moral rightness of it. Or. Well. Whatever."

I'd roll my eyes, if they didn't feel so heavy. Everything feels heavy—weighted down by guilt and distress.

"I think we can all agree on our purpose here," Gwen speaks up. "We want Lucifer taken care of, and the purpose behind Sherlock's resurrection uncovered. It's direct enough."

"Right," Sam agrees immediately, "and we already have a bit of a plan for that. Though we don't want to hurt any more demons…" His eyes flicker significantly towards Dean. "The Doctor has agreed for us to try and summon the one who made Sherlock's deal. It'll be hard to get the specific one, but we should at least be able to get some information."

"We already tried asking demons, they aren't giving us any answers," Dean snaps, his expression shifting to irritation. Sam's jaw tightens, and he looks ready to retort, but the Doctor quickly picks up the train of speech with his own words.

"Well, as Sam explained, we have a better chance if we can pull out the particular demon who did this for Sherlock. Meaning, if I'm not wrong, that Sherlock himself should be the one to summon him?"

"That'll work best," Sam confirms. "It'll give us a better chance, at least."

"Then, off to the nearest crossroads!" The Doctor flips a switch on the console, and then the TARDIS is lurching familiarly, its heavy groan filling my ears in a sound that will never not be comforting. Rose finds it soothing, too—I remember that from some of our long talks, exchanging soft words late at night when neither of us could sleep.

My teeth tighten on my lower lip.

Luckily, I'm not given much time to contemplate that, because the TARDIS then lands. I exhale softly.

"Right," the Doctor declares. He tucks his screwdriver into the loop of his bowtie as though it's an entirely normal thing to do, then proceeds to rub his hands together while glancing at each of us in turn. "Let's all head out for now—we can give Sherlock some space to himself when the actual deal has to be made, but until then, there's no reason why we shouldn't all see how it's done."

"Curious?" Molly teases shyly. It's sweet to see her growing comfortable enough around the Doctor to be poking fun at him like that, and it warms me as he cuffs her lightly on the top of the head, eliciting a light giggle. She'd make a wonderful companion. Better than me or Rose, or Rory. Rose and I always tried too hard to take control, ourselves, and Rory never wanted to travel in the first case—he came along for me. _Died for me._

I blink, bringing myself back to the present, and realize that during my brief space-out, several people have already filed out of the TARDIS. Sam, Rose, and Gwen are gone, with the Doctor and Molly right behind, leaving only me, Sherlock, and Dean. For some reason, the detective's stare is fixated on me—I frown slightly, trying not to look towards him and meet the brittle gaze. I start towards the door, but his low baritone stops me.

"It's remarkable how people manage to destroy their own relationships so neatly," he murmurs.

I whip around, feeling anger rear in my throat. "Excuse me?" I demand, heat flushing over my face. _What the hell? _"That's none of your business, okay? I—how do you even—"

"Even you know it's obvious." He's entirely unfazed. I can hear Dean shift behind me, clearly feeling out of place, but then Sherlock's pale eyes rise over my shoulder and pin the other man in place. "Both of you. You're lucky enough to have people—people who care about you more than anything, and yet you behave so stubbornly. You drive them away when you need them the most."

"Great," I spit. "So now I'm getting relationship advice from the sociopath." Then, realizing how bitter my words sound, I hastily try to amend them, struggling with balancing them between offensive and placid.

"_Both of you?_" Dean adds warily. "Sorry, dude, but you've got no idea who you're talking—"

"The angel," Sherlock sighs, sounding almost exasperated. "I always know who I'm talking about. Often better than he or she does." With those words still on the tip of his tongue, his stare roves back to me. "The only thing that I'm suggesting is that perhaps you should take advantage of the fact that you _have _somebody who will willingly _be there _for you."

"And I'm just saying that you don't have a damn clue about relationships. You don't need to go sticking your nose in ours," I growl.

His face closes off, grows cold. "Fine, then," he murmurs, lifting his chin. "It's none of my concern. But since John isn't here to try and make you feel better, I assumed that I ought to take on the job. Evidently, it's not my place to do such a thing." With that, he strides out of the TARDIS, and I'm left speechless, my previous annoyance frozen in the pit of my stomach.

John. He was thinking of John, of the one person _he _was attached to, and how he had lost him now, rendering himself entirely alone. Sherlock has _no one. _I have Rose, even if she's angry at me right now.

I have Rose.

And then my idiocy fully crashes down on me. Without thinking about Sherlock or Dean or anyone, really, I bolt out the door, barely registering the starry night splayed over the unfamiliar skies above us, and dart to the side of Rose, whose blonde hair shines vividly under the moonlight, striking her out from the rest of the small crowd.

"Rose," I greet her, my breath quick in my throat. The air is cold over my face and arms, but I don't care. "Rose, I'm sorry."

Her chocolate-colored eyes slowly swerve around to meet my own wide, imploring hazel ones. They're shadowed, distrustful. My hand is flying out, gripping onto her wrist, and I try to communicate in every way possible that I truly am sorry, that I want her back more than anything right now.

"I was stupid," I whisper. "I was so stupid. Please, I know that you shouldn't be taking me back, but…" My throat aches wildly. I can feel tears in my eyes—it's amazing that I have any left to shed at this point—and shuffling noises and muffled speech come from behind me, probably the Doctor trying to detract the group's attention from us. Give us some privacy. I'm grateful for that, and I try as hard as I can to take advantage of the moment, moving close to her, but not in a pressing way. "Last night was a mistake. I don't expect you to let it go—you _shouldn't _let it go, okay, but I want you to, I—" My voice cracks. "You're what's keeping me from going insane, Rose, I can't lose you."

She doesn't say anything, not for a long time, but the disgust falls from her eyes, and I can tell all at once that I'm forgiven.


	9. Chapter 8: Gwen Cooper

**A/N** _I'm not sure what caused me to ship Gwen and Sam, but I feel like it would work for various reasons, if only initially._

**Thanks to** _azebra117_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Gwen Cooper

Don't let it fall apart  
A shot in the dark  
A shot in the dark  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"So, this is normal for you?" I clarify of Sam, my arms folded and my fingers wrapped around my elbows as I contemplate the expanse of dark road winding before us. I glance over in time to see him dip his head in a quick nod, and raise a single eyebrow as my gaze flicks back to Sherlock. The detective is just backing away from the small wooden box he'd buried in the ground, containing a glossy picture of himself (hastily captured by an instant-print camera that the Doctor had stored away in one of the TARDIS's many hidden crannies), a handful of graveyard dirt, and the yellowed bone of what was apparently a black cat (I tried not to question what Sam and Dean carried around with them).

"Relatively normal," he agrees quietly. "Even though—well, we try to avoid making actual deals most of the time, of course, but… it can be… tempting, sometimes."

This catches me by surprise. "Have you ever made a deal before?" I ask curiously. Sam seems too smart, too logical for something like that.

"I've tried."

Wow. Perhaps I don't know him at all, really, if I can make such a large misjudgment of his personality. I sneak another sideways glance at him. He's not watching me, or Sherlock, or anyone, really, but rather gazing into the sky, the expanse of glittering silver stardust reflected in his shining eyes. Lost in thought. I resign to be quiet, to not bother him, and instead turn back to Sherlock, who's now tapping his toe on the ground in sharp impatience.

"Alright, let's all back off," Dean suggests, from where he stands on the other side of Sam. "The thing might want to hold back if there's a crowd, it's understandable enou—"

"Missing me?" a purring British voice cuts in.

It's unfamiliar, and coming from the other side of me, so I whirl around along with everyone else. Standing there with a rather smug look on his face is a short-ish, solid-figured man, decked out in a velvet suit that looks alarmingly expensive and holding his dark eyebrows high, a smirk pulling at his lips.

_"You _made the deal?" Dean sputters in disbelief, and I can feel Sam tense even with the few inches of air between us. Iciness is suddenly palpable in the air. Confusion radiates from the expressions of the Doctor, Amy, Rose, and Molly, and Sherlock's brows are drawn together, probably rapidly trying to come to turns with the fact that he's standing meters away from his brother's murderer—and the man who brought he himself back to life.

"Crowley," the younger Winchester greets with frosty calmness, and the demon's smirk widens.

"Moose. And company, I see. A nice little entourage you've pulled together for yourself. What might be the problem this time? Something to do with darling Mycroft, I'm guessing, by your use of Mr. Holmes the younger like bait on a fishing line?"

"It's a simple enough request." Sam stands with his shoulders squared, and takes a half step in front of me—it's almost a defensive stance, I note with perhaps a bit more pleasure than I should. "We need to know what Mycroft died for. Why Sherlock is alive now."

"Can't tell you that one." The demon—Crowley—looks almost on the verge of a yawn, with his hands tucked into his suit pockets, slowly swaying his shoulders from side to side with apparent boredom. "Client confidentiality, all that."

"We need to know," Sam repeats. "It wasn't for no reason."

"Points for you, Antlers. One of the most brilliant men the world has ever seen did not, in fact, die for _no reason. _I believe this is a display of the infamous 'Winchester logic'?"

"Crowley." Dean's voice is low, monotonous, toned in a way that shows just how little patience he has for the whole situation. "It's pretty damn straightforward. You have information we want, so you're gonna give it to us."

"Bossy, bossy," Crowley murmurs. His teeth glint under his curled lip, and his eyes seem to darken—at first, my heart skips a beat, wondering whether I'm about to see the inky obscuration of the iris and sclera that Sam mentioned, but it seems only to be a shadow. "I'd stay in my place if I were you, boy, and not go making veiled threats."

"I'm—"

"Please, you're all so dull." Then his gaze swivels around to focus on the Doctor, who seems vaguely surprised at being picked out in this manner. "Well, except for this one over here. An alien, am I right? A… Time Lord?"

"And you're a demon," the Doctor replies enthusiastically, taking a step forward and paying no regard to the warning hand that Dean lifts. "I haven't gotten a good look at one of you before, at least not one who's actually willing to let a word out of their mouth…"

Crowley's lips curl up fully, forming a tight smile as he surveys the Doctor's young, innocent appearance—probably, I guess, seeing right past the vivid expression and candy-colored bowtie, into the heart of the ageless, godly creature that Jack would tell stories about. "Then this is a first for both of us. Most of my dealings so far have been on Earth… it would be interesting to… extend them."

"We're not here to talk about business expansion!" Dean barks, looking more and more agitated by the second. "If you don't have anything to say about Mycroft, then you can just shut your mouth until… until, well, you do."

The demon's nose wrinkles. "Masterfully delicate phrasing, there. And if you must be so insistent… there is something that might be able to help you idiots out a bit."

"Why should we trust you when you say that?" Sam challenges steadily.

Crowley's eyes stretch in a wide, exasperated roll, scoping out the entire expanse of the skies before returning to focus sarcastically on Sam. "Oh, I don't know," he growls, his voice even morecha low and rasping than before, "perhaps because we've _allied before?_"

"You gave us a gun, once," Sam corrects. "That doesn't mean we were allies."

"Oh, but we've cleared this up already!" he huffs. "I want Lucifer dead at least as much as you do, so—"

"How is Lucifer relevant?" Sherlock speaks for the first time now, deep and clipped. His stare is frigid, calculating. "We were here only to inquire as to my brother's death."

"Are we being clever, now? Yes, of course Lucifer is relevant. You lot all need to stop telling yourselves that you've got a million different enemies at once. There's only once force that we're working against, and we're _all _working against it, however… grudgingly. So how about you drop your pathetic little grudges and we all agree that we're together on this one, yes?"

"We might be able to," Dean snarls, "only you're refusing to let us know the one thing that could be useful!"

"I _can't _tell you, dimwit," Crowley snaps back. "If you had a brain connected to that ridiculous face, then you'd have caught onto that by now. _I _can't tell you what Mycroft died for, because _I _made the deal. If you wanted to know what's so important about Sherlock, I'd suggest you pay a visit to a certain Miss Irene Adler."

Irene Adler. I blink—the name is unfamiliar—and in the time it takes me to do as much, the demon vanishes without so much as a whisper. One moment he's there, the next he's gone—simple as that.

"Damn it!" Dean shouts. "I told you we should have set up the Devil's Trap…"

"It's not like he didn't leave us with anything at all," Sam protests. "That name—Irene Adler…"

"Hardly an uncommon one," Rose points out quietly. "It could take ages to find the right one, and we won't necessarily know when we have…"

"Can't stop us from trying, though, right?" The Doctor's tone is cheerful, but in a rather forced way, like he's running out of things to be optimistic about. I can sympathize with that, I suppose. I mean, what do I have left, really? I've left my whole damn life behind in what I'm now beginning to see as a ridiculous move, I'm completely wrapped up in some world of demon deals and resurrections and time travel that's beginning to give me a material headache…

Well, there's Sam. It's a pretty small thing, but I do like him, at least what I've seen of him. He's something completely detached from Torchwood and Cardiff, and something that I think might at least somewhat help me to get over Rhys. Well, perhaps not get over him, but distract myself, at the very least.

This is what Jack wanted for me, I realize.

And then I force myself to shake my head, to straighten my shoulders and lift my chin and not dwell on this right now. Because Jack is the last thing I need to be thinking of. Torchwood is the last thing I need to be thinking of. Right now, my focus is the Doctor and the Winchesters and the TARDIS, Sherlock and Crowley and Lucifer. Anywhere but home, really.

Or maybe this is my home, now. Maybe I should start thinking of it that way.

"Irene Adler, then?" Amy clarifies as the Doctor pushes open the door to the TARDIS and leads us inside. My shoes echo on the ground as it shifts from soft, springy-grassed earth to the hard glass of the TARDIS's flooring, and the temperature around us seems to rise by several degrees, switching from chilled to pleasantly warm.

"Irene Adler," he confirms, and prances over to one of the screens hooked up to the main console. "This ought to be Earth's internet, if I'm not wrong… _hopefully _I've got the year straight this time…"

"You have access to the internet from in here?" I can't help but half-laugh at that. The whole of time and space isn't enough, evidently, unless there's also a web connection.

"It can be useful." The Doctor's tone is almost defensive, and this time I let out a full laugh, shaking my head slightly.

"Right."

"Anyways. Irene Adler… that's an awfully nice name. Flows off the tongue." He taps away at the screen, which seems to have a virtual keyboard of odd squiggly symbols rather than the English alphabet—or any other Earthly language's, for that matter. The screen swirls silver and blue for a moment, loading, then a page of results springs up. I'm too far away to read the small print, but I see his pale eyebrows rise slowly, until they look like they're going to disappear into the dark flop of his hair.

"What is it, Doctor?" Amy asks, sounding amused, and peeks over. Her hazel eyes almost immediately grow as wide as moons, as do Rose's, when the blonde joins them for a glance.

"What is it?" I question curiously, craning my neck to see over their collective shoulders.

"She's a…" the Doctor stammers. "Er, well… it looks like… if this is the _right _Irene Adler, of course, there's a chance that…"

"She's a dominatrix," Amy announces, "if these results are any sort of indication. And… good at her job, it would seem." She lifts a hand, her painted nails running over the screen as if to select a specific result, and the Doctor slaps her wrist quickly.

"Do that in your spare time!" he yelps.

She rolls her eyes and grins. "I wasn't looking at her website, silly, it's this." Her fingers move back up and tap a blue-shaded link. Seconds later, the screen fills with what's clearly a news article, the headline of which I can read even from here: _Nationally renowned dominatrix and infamous gossip-bearer found dead in her London mansion. _

My jaw drops. "Irene Adler is _dead? _But then… how can we get information from her?"

"Are you kidding? It's easy," Amy insists. "This is what the _time machine _is for."

"No," Sherlock cuts in. His eyes are narrow. "If Crowley had wanted us to _talk _to her, he would have said so. But he didn't. Only mentioned that she had information for us. So perhaps we're meant to learn something _from _her death… from the way she died, perhaps. We need to go to England. Find a way to examine the crime scene, see what we can learn about her killer…"

"A good old-fashioned mystery, eh?" the Doctor agrees. He nods thoughtfully, seeming rather less dampened than one would expect of him by the news of Adler's death. "Alright, wonderful, off to England it is. Though I think that only one or two of us should do the actual _investigating_—and my apologies, Sherlock, mate, but I think you're a bit too famous of a dead man, especially with the police, to get involved."

The word _police _strikes something within me, and I find myself speaking up. "I can do it. If I tell them I work for Torchwood… they'll let me access anything." A hint of pride of my job, Jack's organization, lingers in my chest.

"Perfect," the Doctor agrees brightly. "Right, then, Gwen will see what she can figure out by interviewing the police and whatnot."

"And probably miss at least four extremely obvious bits of evidence, on the way," Sherlock mutters. I try not to be offended, knowing from what the others have said that he talks this way to everyone, and yet I can't help but feel a bit ruffled.

"I won't," I promise, my voice steely.

"And if it helps," Sam adds, "she can take pictures and show them to you. Then you can see if there's anything she missed."

"Right." I'm smiling, somehow. It's nice that he comes to my defense. Warming.

"Then, that's the plan!" The Doctor swipes at the screen, still featuring the article on Adler's murder. "Just let me plug in the coordinates of her house—we'll head back to the day the murder was committed, just to be safe, then you can see any fresh evidence—and we'll be off!" He flicks a pattern of knobs—I can't help but notice how the takeoff commands appear to be different each time, not in a way as if he's altering them for the different destinations, but more like he's improvising each flight. I wonder for the first time if I should be concerned about just how safe this time machine is, not to mention the alien flying it, but I push such a thought aside. I just need to focus on what I've been told to do. Questioning my superiors has always been my biggest mistake, and I'm not going to make it now.

We land almost instantaneously, and I can feel the others' eyes on me as I turn my head towards the door. "Just like this?" I ask. "I go out and… see what I can get?"

The Doctor nods, the movement accompanied by an enthusiastic thumbs-up. "Best of luck, I'm sure you'll do brilliantly!"

"Wish we were both that sure," I mutter under my breath, then straighten my shoulders and raise my voice. "Don't go flying off anywhere. I don't want to come back here just to find the TARDIS gone."

"Not a worry," he promises.

"Great. See you all soon, then."

"Good luck," Sam says softly to me as I pass. I smile back at him—not a wide grin, only a curling of the edges of my lips, hinting at happiness while not flaunting glee. I casually push the TARDIS's door open with my shoulder, and find myself in complete darkness.

I blink, as if that'll change things, even as I step fully out of the machine and let the door shut behind me. I am, in fact, completely surrounded by solid black. Has the Doctor made some kind of ridiculous mistake? Landed us in a cavern on an alien planet or something? I'm just about to go back inside the TARDIS when my eyes adjust enough to detect a tiny sliver of dusty light along the floor. I squint, willing the fragment of buttery paleness to spread across the rest of the space, but it's not strong enough. I step slightly sideways, and my shoulder brushes against what feels like fabric—it _is _fabric, I realize, and then, fingering the bit of clothing's shape, it hits me all at once.

I'm in a closet.

A closet containing the 'outfits' of a worldwide-renowned dominatrix.

I can feel myself flushing even as I quickly rip my fingers away from the skimpily sewn silk, then fumble for a doorknob along the wall before me. I find one soon enough, and shove it open, finding myself hit immediately by grey light that streams through the tall, heavy curtain-rimmed windows of the room around me. Rain attacks them in quick splatters, establishing that London is being plagued by its typical weather. I shiver, even though the house is too well-heated to feel the chill, and slowly take in the rest of the scene.

I'm in a bedroom. A very nice bedroom, long and wide, with cream-colored carpet and a truly magnificent bed, all plush pillows and heavy comforters and dark-carved wooden posts. I try not to let my eyes linger on it, knowing what kind of activity its sheets must be stained with, but a dark shape catches my eye.

My throat freezes. There's a corpse splayed out on the lush blankets. Her chest is crusted with multiple dark crimson bullet holes, ripping through the delicate velvet robe wrapped around her slim figure, and her face seems to be carved out of wax, pale as snow and eerily still, glassy sapphire eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Brunette curls splay out from her head and neck, falling over the pillows in uneven waves.

Irene Adler.

It's just then that I realize I'm not alone in the room. There are a few other men stationed around it—one by the door, murmuring into a walkie-talkie, a second carefully examining one of the body's hands, and a third stepping up towards me, a stressed, confused expression on his worn features.

"And just where did you come from, miss?" he asks suspiciously. His voice is London-accented, matching the impression given by his dark eyes and short-cropped grey hair.

"Oh—closet." I jab a finger over my shoulder, shrugging as if it's the most normal thing in the world. "I, ah… I was just taking a look in there."

His eyes comb over my figure, taking in the leather jacket, the dark jeans, the careful stance. "You're not with the police," he replies, his voice painstakingly calm, "so I'm going to have to ask you to come in for a few questions. Your presence on this crime scene could be considered suspicious."

"I'm with Torchwood," I reply automatically, and it takes me a moment to realize that the words are a lie, that I'm not with Torchwood at all. I try my best to look convincing, though—I work to keep my voice and gaze steady and even. "I think you'll find that I have access to anywhere I need to be."

"Torchwood?" A thin line forms between his brows, and I can tell by a wince tugging at the corner of his mouth that a headache just set in. "Do you have any sort of ID?"

"Nothing on me, but you can check with my boss, if you need to. Captain Jack Harkness in Cardiff, I can give you the phone number, just ask if he dispatched Gwen Cooper to investigate the Adler murder—"

"No, no, it'll be fine," he interrupts. I can't help but be amused, even as sympathy for his obvious overwork stirs in my chest. "Just try to be quick with what you need to get done, Miss Cooper, we're going to be cleaning up here pretty quickly."

"Not a problem. But I might have to ask you a few questions, actually, Mr.…?"

"Detective Inspector," he corrects wearily, "Greg Lestrade."

"Right," I amend. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. What can you tell me about the circumstances of this murder?"

He crosses his arms and sighs. "Not much, yet. It was a messy job, as you can see, but our paramedics are saying it looks like the first shot fired struck her right in the heart, killed her instantly. Whoever did this kept going even after he had killed her, so he was either very angry or not quite right in the head. Or, well, he just liked shooting people."

I raise my eyebrows. "Anything else?"

"Well, she had this _mobile phone—_well-known, really, it was what made her infamous. She kept all of her information on it. Records of all the scandals and affairs that made her name well-known… and the thing went missing. Completely gone—her killer must've taken it. I'd say it narrows our suspects, but it really doesn't. There are probably hundreds of people who'd want her dead for that information, and plenty of them qualified snipers. Or, well, men who could shoot a gun easily enough. Men and women, as a matter of fact… yeah, there's really nothing. If you'll excuse my blatancy, Miss Cooper, we haven't got a clue."

"You sound… particularly upset about that," I observe carefully. I'm aware that I'm walking a very fine line, and I try to stay balanced, silently praying that he doesn't grow any more suspicious than he already seems to be.

"It's just that we had this detective, once—he hired himself out to Scotland Yard, see, right genius, he was. And he could have solved this one in a snap, I'm sure. But he disappeared a few months ago… killed somehow, apparently. I don't want to believe it, but…"

A chill slips over my spine. _He's talking about Sherlock. _I'm not sure how I know, but who else could it be, really? I had no idea that he consulted with the police, yet it seems obvious, now. Someone as perceptive and intelligent as him surely wouldn't waste their gift. And the death several months ago, the death that this Detective Inspector never received any proof of… for a moment, I want to tell him. Tell him that there's an impossible blue box hidden in the closet, and that inside of it is an alien, and a couple of demon hunters, and Sherlock Holmes himself—Lestrade, at least from his appearance, seems to need a bit of adventure in his life.

But I know how stupid that would be. I'm here on a job. To let my actions be controlled by sentimentality, to allow this man in on everything just because I feel _bad _for him, is entirely ridiculous. I shake off the impulse, forcing a tight smile to cover up my nervousness. "I'm sorry," I murmur. It's obvious that my tone is false, but I hope he owes it to uncaring rather than dishonesty—not that I want him to think of me as heartless. "Torchwood is going to be trying just as hard as your men to put something together here, Detective Inspector. We should be able to figure something out together."

"Hopefully," he agrees dully. "Best of luck, Miss Cooper. I hope you'll manage to turn up something better than we have."

_So do I, _I almost say, _you've got no idea how much depends on it—_but I simply nod instead, forcing another humorless smile. "If you don't mind, I'm just going to take a bit more of a look around," I tell him.

"Of course. But haste really is appreciated."

I nod again and turn away, pivoting on my heel to face the bed. I should be used to dead bodies right now, what with my job. And I suppose I am, somewhat. But it still hurts to see Adler carelessly flopped on the mattress like this, to know that she's never going to breathe or laugh or smile again. I wonder if anyone will miss her. Her lifestyle certainly isn't a family one, but perhaps she had parents, siblings… some sort of relative who'll be grief-stricken when they hear the news of her demise.

I almost hope so. The thought of her dying alone just makes the whole thing even sadder, somehow.

The man currently examining the body backs away as I approach, giving me ample room that I don't necessarily desire. I carefully hold my bottom lip between my teeth. What am I even supposed to do with the body? The only thing I've been trained for is checking for alien attack marks, and I'm fairly positive that Adler was killed by a human—or otherwise one possessed by a demon, but I'm not to know if there are any usually any visible indications of such a thing. What I really need to do is get back into the TARDIS, tell Sherlock and the rest what's going on, but I can hardly step back into the closet without arousing definite suspicion. The best thing I can do is wait until this room is clear again. Which could, I reflect, take quite a while.

I distract myself by forcing my hands to accept the pale blue latex gloves that I realize one of the policemen to be offering me. I utter a low and insincere "thanks" as I force the dry, rubbery material over my fingers. Now that I'm covered, I really don't have any excuses. Holding my breath for no real reason, I reach forward and lift her limp wrist in my right hand. Even with the barrier of the glove in between me and it, I can't help but feel revolted. It's not cold, exactly, but an unappealing room temperature, like meat left out on the counter too long. And stiff, too—more like wood than flesh, which is actually rather helpful in detaching myself from the whole experience. It's easier if I can pretend that this is a fake body, somehow, rather than a genuine dead person.

I can't be sure why it's bothering me so much. I _have _had my share of corpses. Perhaps it's the mundaneness of this murder, the knowledge that hundreds like this occur every day, really, whereas the alien accidents that I'm used to investigating are few and far-between enough for Torchwood to function with only its tiny team of five operatives.

I sigh through my nose and let my fingers wander along her arm, then move to the curve of her hip and thigh. I really don't know what I'm looking for—I'm probably looking like an idiot, as a matter of fact, casually stroking the corpse with no apparent method to my actions. Desperately, I turn back to Lestrade—noticing in such an action that he's the only officer left in the room. _Getting there. _

"Where was she keeping the mobile?" I ask offhandedly, as if it's the most casual inquiry imaginable.

"Safe downstairs," he gets out through a yawn. His eyes flick down to his watch, then back up towards me apologetically. "If you don't mind, Miss Cooper, we really do need to wrap up in here. We've got to get her to a coroner as soon as possible."

A safe. Of course. I was stupid to think that the phone would be carried on her person—if it really did hold as much information as was apparently rumored, then there'd be no reason to keep it in such a vulnerable place.

"Right," I mumble in an improvisational manner, "I was just going to head out, actually—just one more look in the closet."

"What's so interesting about that closet, anyways?" he asks curiously as I drop Adler's arm and shuffle towards the door. "You must have been spending an awful lot of time in it to be here before the Yard."

"Nothing in particular…" God, I'm awful at this. I suffice to shrug, and I can tell by the shift in his features that he's growing suspicious all at once.

Conveniently, a massive crash rings through the building just then, from what sounds like a floor down.

"What the—" His head whips around, eyes wide. Without another word, the Detective Inspector hastens out the door. It's an odd coincidence, but one I'm not going to question—I dart into the closet, just in time to see the TARDIS fading into place.

Dammit. They were supposed to _stay. _

I half-kick open the door and march in. "I thought I told you not to go anywhere!" I exclaim to the room at large, my eyes roving over everyone clustered there. "Wherever the hell you were, you barely got back in time!"

"You needed a distraction," Sherlock replies neatly. "You were taking longer than needed to ask a few simple questions, so I merely suggested that we check to see if you were doing alright. Sure enough, it seemed as though you could use something to take the attention off of yourself, and so we provided."

"You don't ever need to worry about us being back in time," the Doctor adds, "this is a _time _machine, you know."

"Right—right, whatever," I sigh, my eyes finding Sam automatically. He glances away, towards the wall, just as our gazes meet, and I can't stop the small smirk that curls the edge of my mouth. "Nothing much to report," I continue, turning to Sherlock; "the biggest thing is that she had a mobile phone missing after her death. It had a bunch of information on it, scandals and such, that could be extremely dangerous, I guess."

"That's easy enough, then," Sherlock murmurs. "We need to find the phone. If we find the phone, we find the murderer."

"Sure, alright," Dean speaks up, his voice tight and exasperated, "only how exactly do we go about _finding the phone?_" There's pronounced stress around his eyes and jaw, and it's clear that he didn't sleep much last night—compared to Sam, who looks relatively refreshed and bright, he seems awful. I wonder if his bad condition has anything to do with the angel who seems to have turned against him, and from there I can't help but wonder what exactly their connection is, so that it would affect Dean so much while leaving Sam alone. Just how close of friends were they? Or were they really _friends _at all?

I'm distracted by my rather gossipy train of thought by Sherlock's cutting retort.

"It can be somewhat easier to track a designated electronic device than a person," he growls. "Phones leave a trail behind them whenever they're in use, a trail that can never be fully erased. If we can get ahold of its signal, then the process of locating the killer will be entirely straightforward. I actually used a similar method in a…" His words drop off abruptly enough that I can tell something's wrong. For a moment, something seems to move behind his icy eyes, then his face morphs into a full-on scowl, as if challenging the concerned glances that have risen up around him. "We need to find the phone's signal," he mutters.

"Signal, right!" the Doctor says loudly, then his face twisted into a confused expression. "…How exactly do we get a signal?"

"Well, we are in a _time machine…_" Rose points out quietly.

"So we could go back, plant some sort of bug on the phone, then track it now?" Amy finishes.

"Lovely! See, I only pick the best," the Doctor declares. "Right brilliant, the two of you are."

"It was the obvious solution," Sherlock breathes grouchily, but the Doctor makes an effort to pay him no attention.

"Off we go, then," he goes on, flicking another seemingly random assortment of switches. "Ready to meet Irene Adler?"


	10. Chapter 9: Molly Hooper

**A/N** _It seems that I just attempted to put as many of my ships in here as possible. So have a bit of Molly/everyone._

**Thanks to** _azebra117 and RandomHyperChild_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE**

Molly Hooper

In the blink of an eye  
I can see through your eyes  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

My hand is shaking as I ring Irene Adler's doorbell. I can hear its resounding trill echo through the house, and turn around desperately just in time to see the TARDIS wheezing and fading away from the sidewalk. I take a long, deep breath, tapping my foot and adjusting the fur-rimmed sleeve of a long, rather nice overcoat of Amy's. It's not raining, not quite, but the wind is heavy, and since the only attire I have is still my light, professional hospital wear, I would've been chilled to the bone by now if not for the extra protection. My breath mists in front of my, clouding my view of the perfectly painted, white wooden door before me. My anxiety begins to pound even faster, until it feels like my heart is drilling away a hole in my ribcage. I try to take a calming breath and it ends up a strangled gasp.

I can hear the Doctor's voice in my head. _Calm down. _But all I can do is tell myself over and over what an idiot I am, how Rose or Amy or Gwen should have taken the job, or even Dean or Sam…

But I know that I was the only choice, really. The rest of them all had some suspicious attribute—American accents, pregnancy… and Gwen couldn't risk being recorded with Adler in any way, since that would render her actions in the murder investigation incredibly suspicious, and that could get Torchwood in trouble. The only other option was Rose, really, and she flat-out refused.

So here I am, a client of Irene Adler.

I'm not _really _going to be accepting her services, of course. The plan is straightforward. I remind myself of that fiercely, struggling to stop my lungs from leaping out of my chest like an overeager rabbit. It's simple: I get inside, find where her phone is, and inject it with the microscopic bug contained in a syringe in my pocket—some sort of alien technology that the Doctor was extremely proud to give to me. Once the bug is in place, it'll set off a signal that pulls the TARDIS to my time and location. It'll be waiting in the nearest bathroom, the Doctor said, and all I have to do is make my way there and slip away.

Easy. It's going to be easy.

I've nearly gained my composure when the door opens, and it all comes tumbling down around me again. Standing before me is a lovely-looking woman—but, I realize with a sick twist of my stomach, relief combined with trepidation, she doesn't match the images of Adler that I've seen.

"Miss Molly Hooper," she greets. She has a low, smoky sort of voice that matches her heavily lidded eyes and dark-painted lips. She looks over me slowly, as though stripping me down, and I wonder briefly if that's exactly what she is doing. The thought causes me to draw my coat more tightly around my torso and thighs, and she laughs, her slender neck tilting back with the action. "We've been expecting you. Come right in, dear, Miss Adler will see to you immediately."

"Th-thank you." _Damn, _I curse myself silently. Leave it to me to stutter on the very first word I speak. I take another slow breath, will the blood to fade from my face, and step inside.

The house is magnificent. The ceiling towers above me, the walls are washed with a pale glow illuminated by what seems to be a very expensive lighting system, and everything about it seems professional and inviting at the same time. My shoes sink into carpet that must be at least an inch thick.

"This is… nice," I voice timidly. The woman, who I decide must be Adler's personal assistant or something of the like, seems amused by my comment.

"Trust me, sweetie, the décor isn't what people come here for."

My throat goes dry. God, I don't want this. _Don't want this, don't want this, I don't want this. _Or do I? That thought sends my stomach heaving in a whole new direction. What if I _do _want to be dominated? What if the only reason I'm avoiding the idea so severely is because I fear it might hit home a little too hard?

No. No, no, no; that's just ridiculous. I force myself to swallow and lift my head a bit higher. None of this matters, anyways. I won't so much as get a chance for her to take my shoes off. I'm going to plant the bug, and then get out of here. As quick as I can.

"Miss Adler is upstairs." The assistant crosses her arms, lounging against the wall and watching me with those deep, shaded eyes. Her gingery brown hair is drawn back from her face in a tight ponytail, exposing the pale, smooth cream of her neck and shoulders. "First door on the left. Have a lovely time, darling."

"I—I will—yeah," I squeak, then decide that I'm not going to make any more of an idiot of myself than I already have. I scramble up the dark-wooded staircase that winds before me, feeling a slick of sweat between my palm and the railing. As soon as I'm out of sight of Adler's assistant, I reach down and surreptitiously wipe my hands off on the hem of Amy's coat. My lower lip is curling around the edge of my teeth, a nervous reflex, and I force it out. Casual. Laid-back, that's what I have to be. It's easy enough. Or at least it would be if I were—well, anyone but myself. Sherlock would be able to do this magnificently, but we couldn't use him, for the obvious purpose of his being supposedly dead. We've only gone back a week or so, after all.

I gulp. I'm going to be one of Adler's last clients.

But, no. I'm not, absolutely _not _going to think about that right now. Instead, I climb the rest of the flight of stairs, and don't allow myself to hesitate when I push open the door on my immediate left. I squeeze my eyes shut, step in, and let it close behind me.

"Waiting for a surprise?" a low voice asks.

My gasp is caught in my throat. I want to open my eyes, to see what I've walked into, but it's like they're stuck shut, suddenly, as if my body is reacting to my anxiety with a desperate attempt to completely close off my windows to reality. My voice shakes as I force it out between my lips.

"I don't know what to expect," I admit, and next to the velvet tones of the woman who must be Irene Adler, my own weak words sound too high, too quavering, like the peep of a mouse beside the coo of a dove.

"You don't look like the type to." A hand settles over my shoulder. I flinch drastically enough to draw a laugh out of her, but her fingers don't move away—rather, her thumb rubs in gentle circles around the overly tense muscles of my neck, and I can feel every movement of her fingers, like they're burning hot brands against my skin. "You don't need to worry, Miss Hooper. I'm not going to hurt you."

"I—I know." I force myself to say it, but I realize that I'm lying. I stare into the darkness of my shut eyes until it flames red. I'm afraid. I'm afraid that she _is _going to hurt me. For the time being, I've completely forgotten my purpose, and it's all I can do to remind myself over and over that I don't have anything to dread, that people _pay _for this kind of thing—that, supposedly, I myself have.

"You can open your eyes now." Her lips tickle my temple, and it feels like millions of tiny threads of ice are all racing down my spine at once, winding through each of my veins and electrocuting me with their chill. Ever so slowly, my eyelids rise, and are greeted by a pale yellow glow. My breath is suspended in my throat.

The room is beautiful. Almost as beautiful as the woman standing next to me, and for a moment, I can't decide which I should be staring at.

Irene Adler is a rare woman. It's not just that she's pretty—she's utterly _gorgeous, _supermodel gorgeous, movie-star gorgeous. And I can admit to myself, after a few breathless instants, that some of it must be due to the golden light of the room, and the makeup purposely accentuating her face, yet I can't help but be entirely captivated. Her features are carved as if from marble, shadows flitting under her sharp cheekbones and strong chin, with her hair twirled up in an intricate series of decorative knots, clustered around her slender neck and shapely shoulders. Her eyes are ice blue, watching me from behind a thicket of glittering dark lashes, and her scarlet lips tilt up at the corners. She's barely wearing anything, my brain slowly registers, just a gossamer slip of a dress, pale blue with black lace along the edges. It's a fragile garment, and yet something about it is contradictory—I can tell by the way she holds herself that she's far from delicate. That _I'm _the one here who's going to be begging for mercy.

And the room, God, the room—it's like the princess palace that I always dreamed of as a child. Rich velvet drapes, dark maroon in color, obscure the windows—outside, I recognize in a dim corner of my brain, it must still be daylight, but in here, the sun feels like a distant memory. The bed takes up the majority of the space, its carved oaken headboard broad and stark against the deep beige walls, silken blankets artfully bunched along the piles of pillows. And, right in the middle—there's a riding crop.

My heart is suspended inside my chest.

It's not fancy. Sleek, black, glinting dully in the low light. Nothing else, none of the array of chains and ropes and handcuffs scattered over the photographs on her website. Just the single whip, but somehow it's more effective than a whole sex dungeon could be.

I blink. I can think again, just barely.

"I need to make a call," I get out. My voice is dry and shaking, but the words are clear enough.

Irene's mouth moves to my ear. I can feel the glossy texture of her lipstick, and the blood in my veins seems to leap as I feel her teeth press against my skin, biting down ever so lightly as her fingers brace themselves against my shoulder. "Kate will take care of it," she murmurs.

"No, I—it—it's important," I mumble. I keep my eyes fixated on the whip, like it's the only thing rooting me down, the only thing stopping me from letting things go and allowing her to take control of me. I'm here on business. A job. A mission, for everyone, for the Doctor—

_The Doctor. _I hold him in my mind as fiercely as I can, letting his image burn bright, drown out Irene. The Doctor. My Doctor. I need to get back to him. I need to.

"I have to make it," I apologize, and, to my relief, my tone is much more confident now. "But I—I don't have a phone…"

She tenses against me for a moment, the curves of her body strong as they brush against mine, then she pulls away. I let go of a lungful of air that I hadn't realized myself to be holding. "Here," she sighs, pacing over to a small table beside the bed. Her movements are lithe and graceful, and it crosses my mind that the fluidness of the motions probably doesn't stop in bed, but I can't afford a train of thought like that. I drag the Doctor's image back, insistently. He's what I have to return to. He can motivate me. He _is _motivating me.

Irene lifts a mobile device from the table. Triumph clenches in my chest. It's her phone—it must be. "Make your call _quickly,_" she demands, and the sharp edge to her voice isn't impatient, but merely commanding. Striking. That's what she is, really—just amazingly _striking _beyond all else. "And be a dear and don't look into any data kept in the phone. There's plenty of information there that could get a lovely little girl like you into far more trouble than you can handle."

My wrist shakes, but I accept the phone, and turn away as I dial a meaningless number into the waiting keypad. It probably isn't even valid, but that doesn't matter—I'm doing what is important; I'm slipping the Doctor's clear syringe out of my pocket, positioning its needle along the crease of the phone's plastic and metal casing, depressing it and knowing that the invisible bug has slipped into place. Keeping my head ducked down, I pull the syringe back down, hiding it under my sleeve, and murmur a couple of words into the phone, completely improvising.

"Kevin? Yeah, I'm—I'm a bit busy at the moment, I'm really sorry, I won't be able to work that shift—could you cover for me? Please? I—I don't have any way to get there… yes… yes, thank you so much."

I feign hanging up, then turn back to Irene. She's watching me with her arms crossed, crimson nails curled around her elbows and a smirk settled on her lips. "Anything else you need to take care of?" she purrs, pacing to the bed and settling down luxuriously. She stretches out on it in a very careful manner, so that I can see a few inches of her thighs where the close-fitting dress comes a bit too short—probably intentional in its design, I reflect. It certainly has an effect on me, but I cover it up with a grimace.

"Actually, if you wouldn't mind, I—I think I'd best use the restroom…"

"Only a door away." She inclines her head in the direction that her words indicate, sounding as though she expected me to ask the question. "Do be quick, I want to spend as much time with you as I can."

I try not to let her words, toned like amber, draw me in again. Instead, I display a wordless, grateful smile, then back out of the room as quickly as I can. It's not until I'm a few steps down the hallway, headed for the next door, that I realize how much I'm trembling. Not just my legs, but my whole body, as though I'm an autumn leaf in the first bitter winds of snowfall.

I quickly find the door, and wrench open the knob without hesitation. I walk almost directly into the TARDIS—it's waiting there, wide open. I only make it a few steps in before I'm stumbling, but the Doctor is there, laughing and holding me up, and then I'm laughing, too, grabbing onto his shoulders and shaking my head at the pure absurdity of it all.

"_Never _make me do that again," I gasp, looking up and into his bright eyes and wide grin.

"I never made you do anything, you brilliant girl," he replies, "you did all of this on your own. Every last scrap of it."

I laugh again, savoring the warm tickle of relief in my throat, and turn around, my hands still around the Doctor's upper arms. Rose is pushing the door shut, and as I watch, her wide brown eyes lift to the Doctor's.

"We'd best be off," she hints, "unless we want Irene Adler finding a phone box in her bathroom. I imagine she'd get a bit suspicious."

"Yes, yes, of course." The Doctor pulls himself away from me and prances over to the console, pressing a new round of buttons that causes a small light bulb to gleam green. The others are all clustered around the console, and I hurry forward, leaning in so that I can see him work along with them. He spins a pair of dials, checks a series of numbers on old-fashioned looking flipping panels, and then wrenches the usual levers to haul us into a different time. I sigh, savoring the long exhalation of air from my lungs, and spin over to the railing, securing my fingers around its warm goldenness as the TARDIS takes off around me. I can see how people grow attached to its wheezing noise, I suppose, and how Amy and Rose surely have. Even as it promotes a sense of adventure inside of me, something about it is also comforting, secure.

It's then that I realize, in the single day I've lived in the TARDIS, it's become more of a home to me than my house in London ever was.

Maybe it's the Doctor. Maybe it's the fantastical quality of it all. Maybe it's just the _escape. _But somehow, magically, I feel like I'm walking in a dream. I'm in a childhood fairytale, and it's just as perfect as I always imagined.

The sound of a cocking gun shatters my golden moment.

I tense up instinctively, whipping around with my eyes wide to see Dean tucking a pistol into his jeans. His eyes and jaw are hard, steely, and I can tell that he's working himself into a different mindset than he's shown us so far. A killer's mindset.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the Doctor exclaims, evidently having caught sight of the weapon as well. "Now, we don't need to bring weapons into this…"

"We're headed into the home of a murderer, Doc, I think the safest thing would be to prepare ourselves." His tone is sarcastic, condescending, and his hard look doesn't waver at all. Sam straightens up beside him as the TARDIS completes its noisy landing pattern, his features schooled into a similarly wary expression.

"Well, alright, nothing wrong with caution, but—_guns?_" the Doctor questions.

"Guns," Dean confirms tightly.

Sam speaks up. His voice is softer, but just as determined. "Molly—will you be able to identify the phone?"

"Oh… yes, I suppose I will." My stomach does a complete backflip as I realize that I'm not _done, _not at all. I'm about to head into another strange house, possibly confront another strange person, and this time there's a lot more than my body at stake.

We're about to find out who killed Irene.

"No," the Doctor cuts in. "No, no, no, no, no, no, and a little extra _no,_" he adds with a bit of a flourish. "You aren't taking here in there. Absolutely not."

"Doctor," I begin softly, but nobody seems to hear me.

"We _need _her," Dean snaps back, and it's immediately clear that he's not going to back down, no matter how hard the Doctor fights to protest. My stomach cinches even harder. Dean's the only person I've met so far who can actually convince the Doctor out of his will, and severely so. Though I may be on his side this time, I don't want to see the Doctor fought down again. I don't want to see him defeated, or embarrassed, or—upset at all, really.

"Doctor," I try again. "I really do—"

This time, Sherlock is the one to interrupt me. I freeze at his voice, switching gears to the startled-rabbit demeanor that I can never help but assume around him. "It's true that she's the only way to ensure we get the correct phone," he points out. "The killer, whoever he may be, is bound to have his own mobile device, and perhaps others—decoys, even. Your tracker isn't precise enough to give us the exact location."

The Doctor seems genuinely flustered, desperate to think of a way to keep me back, to… to keep me safe. "You can't take her," he insists. "Not this time. This is too dangerous."

Rose sidles up to him, watching me with a shadow of concern. "She hasn't protested, Doctor," she says gently. "Maybe Molly wants to do this."

"Regardless—I can't let her. Molly, Molly, Miss Molly, don't be _ridiculous, _now, you can hardly…" he trails off, simply shaking his head, then starts up again. He sounds almost heated, like his franticness is bordering on anger, and I pull away slightly, my eyes widening. "You might get yourself killed, now, just stay here, stay in the TARDIS…"

"I—" Now I'm suddenly second-guessing everything. I swallow to buy myself time, my eyes flitting away from the Doctor's slightly flushed face and skating over the floor instead. I don't understand how I managed to go from euphoria to aching confusion in such a brief moment. This is stupid. I have no reason, no reason at all to be debating on this at all. Everyone—_everyone, _including myself, thinks that I should go. That I should do it, serve my small purpose and probably come out completely unscathed.

Everyone but the Doctor.

I don't need to hold his opinion above the others. I have no reason to. And that's why I take a steady breath and set my shoulders, lifting my chin to show that I've made my decision, that I'm confident in it.

"I'm going to do it, Doctor," I tell him. To my relief, my voice is indeed strong, almost brisk. "I'm not a child. I'll be fine."

"Atta girl," Dean chuckles, then jerks his head to the side, indicating that I follow. "Let's get this over with. See you all as soon as possible, right?"

I try to avoid the Doctor's face as I shuffle after him, don't let myself think about how the brief glance I caught was hurt, almost personally offended. I have no reason to regret this. None at all.

The search party seems to form itself: me, the Winchesters, and Sherlock. Dean is the first out of the TARDIS. I follow, and we're backed by Sam, who glances to each side like a child about to cross the street, his eyes wide and his gun held out from his side. Dean's hand dips under his jacket as the TARDIS's door clicks shut behind us, and he pulls out his own weapon, tipping it up and holding it close to his shoulder, its nose directed towards the ceiling.

We're in what seems to be a small, crowded flat. The sitting room, judging by the aged television set that perches on a beer-stained table before us. Opposite is a worn couch, draped over by a blanket that probably used to be vibrantly colored but now sags in faint, frayed strands, looking just as dismal and hopeless as the rest of the dusty space. A surprising number of books are cluttered about the space as well, some boxed up and some in unsteady piles, more than one topped with a half-empty beer bottle.

"Let's go," Dean breathes, gesturing that we follow. I hurry after him, Sam and Sherlock swift behind me. Both of them carefully observe each wall and bit of age-damaged furniture that we pass, their narrow eyes sharp and aware. Sam has allowed his gun arm to relax, holding it loosely between his fingers, but Dean still holds his weapon high and direct. I feel sick with tension. Are we alone? Is this increasingly alarming murderer at home?

At one point, my foot presses against a bad floorboard, and the resulting creak is like the shriek of a banshee. I can't help but yelp, myself, a piercing noise, and then Sam's hand is over my mouth, his arm wrapped around my shoulders. I stiffen, my lungs and heart seemingly paralyzed, and for a moment, both of us are deadly tense against each other, until he finally relaxes a bit and steps back.

"I'm sorry, Molly, but you need to be quieter," he whispers intently. "He could be here."

"I—I know." There's no substance to my voice. Only the trembling movements of my lips, but I think Sam understands, or at least hope he does. In any case, he gives me a nod and waves a hand, presumably indicating that I go on. One at a time, we tiptoe over the threshold to a new room. This one is even smaller and more cramped than the first, consisting of a bed and three bookshelves, one of which is lined not with the thick paperback volumes filling the rest of the house, but rather a series of dark-colored guns—anything from tiny, two-finger pistols to what look to be massive deer-hunting rifles. They're all polished to a shine, gleaming under the sickly buzzing light that Dean has flicked on overhead.

But my eyes are drawn to none of these.

Right above the bed, unnecessarily duct-taped to the wall, is a series of pictures. In them are people—varying figures, all number of them. I recognize Irene Adler's curving frame, as well as the chilling significance of the orange-ish X that strikes it cleanly through. I'm even more alarmed when I see the same mark over a faded photo of a very familiar man—Sherlock, unmistakably.

"He thinks you're dead," I breathe.

There's no response, but I'd barely notice even if there was. I'm too busy gawking at the rest of the images. I'm not there, but the Doctor is, and so are Amy and Rose, as well as John Watson, and a few other people that I don't recognize—a lovely darker-skinned couple, sharing a frame… a haughty-looking redheaded woman… Captain Jack Harkness and Ianto Jones, from Torchwood.

Right in the middle are Sam and Dean. The biggest photos.

But they're not what catch my attention.

Because there's another picture. Above the vague blob of the rest, isolated on its own, like there's something special about it. And it's the most familiar of them all. Round, dark eyes, pale skin, short black hair… but the features are tilted by a coldness that I never saw on the man when I knew him… when I thought I knew him.

"That's my ex-boyfriend," I say blankly.

Dean glances over, staring at me incredulously. "Your _boyfriend?_" he snorts. Sam looks rather concerned, too, but the majority of his attention is taking up by the image of his own face staring out from the wall. I can see his fingers tense ever so slightly, tightening their grip on the gun so that his knuckles gleam white.

Sherlock curls his lip. "Moriarty," he breathes.

_"Moriarty?" _Dean repeats, the syllables slipping over one another in his haste to voice the name. I don't recognize it. Jim Forde, that was who I'd always thought I'd known. But surely they aren't talking about him. This… Moriarty. The man who Dean claims to be connected with Lucifer.

It can't be Jim.

Not Jim.

"I suppose no one ever told you, Molly," Sherlock murmurs almost absentmindedly, reaching up to brush his pale fingers around the worn, wear-softened edge of the photograph. Like the rest of them, it's secured in place with clear tape, pinning down the edges, and it doesn't take much effort for him to rip it swiftly loose and bring it down, holding it close to his face. "You were dating him at one point. There's a reason he vanished at the same time as me." He doesn't mention John. "Moriarty was the reason we were on that planet in the first place. He was plotting to destroy the Earth… the Doctor killed him."

_The Doctor killed him. _

Somehow—and I don't know if it's a fault or a miracle—that's the only part of his short burst of information that I really process. The Doctor killed him. Killed Jim. The Doctor, the bouncy, humorous, bowtie-wearing Doctor. He murdered my boyfriend.

I can't breathe.

But somehow my head's not spinning. Everything is still firmly in place, most of all Jim's eyes on that picture that Sherlock's still examining. They look different than how I remember them. Wide. Dead. Not as if they belong to the corpse—which they don't; he's very clearly alive in the picture, an eerie intensity holding his features—but more like they aren't eyes at all, just _gaps, _just sockets in a skull, consisting of nothing but oil and shadow.

I barely notice Sherlock setting the photo down. I just keep staring, staring blankly into the space where Jim's inhuman eyes were moments before. I'm lost. Entirely lost and entirely confused. And it's now that I realize how the one person rooting me down had been the Doctor—the Doctor from my childhood. The man who I'd always turned to, really, whenever I got afraid; that one secret little memory that always kept me going.

And now I realize he's a murderer.

Just like the rest of them.

Sherlock's hand is on my shoulder. Normally, such an action would punch my heart right out of my chest, but instead I feel nothing. Only a blank void.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. His voice is so deep that I feel I could drown in it. But I don't need to suffocate any more than I already am.

"It's not your fault," I say, but the truth is that it is. We both know it. Sherlock ruined any chance I ever had of a perfect life—well, perhaps not a perfect one, but at least something that didn't result in a mess like this. I could have been normal, if not for him. The Doctor only ever returned to me because of my association with Sherlock himself. I was never anything special. I never will be.

I suppose that's the instant when I fall out of love with Sherlock, really. He senses it just as I do; I can tell by the tightening of his hand on my shoulder, by the low sigh that falls from his lips. He's not disappointed. He's gratified, even—relieved. And I suppose that I am, too. He was holding me back, all this time.

I've broken free from him just as a thousand more bonds have been secured around me.

Dean and Sam move to the next room, but Sherlock and I stand in place for a long time. I'm still looking at nothing, and I think that he's watching me.

"None of it was true." I'm almost laughing. I can feel my lips twitching up, in any case—it's not a smile. It's like the horrible, broken grimace that forms on the face of someone about to cry. But my eyes have never felt drier.

Sherlock's voice carries the weight of a man who's been through too much.

"Nothing ever is."


	11. Chapter 10: Dean Winchester

**A/N** _And then there was Destiel._

**Thanks to** _Cutiepi97_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN**

Dean Winchester

As I'm lying awake  
I'm still hearing the cries  
And it hurts  
Hurts me so bad  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"Moriarty," I hiss under my breath, spitting the name out like a cuss word. "He said that picture was _Moriarty. _What the hell does he have to do with this?"

"Maybe what Crowley said was true," Sam suggests, shrugging as he lifts up a towel in the bathroom we're currently examining. A suspicious-looking rusty red stain greets him on the other side, and he drops it like he's been burned. "All that about having only one enemy, or whatever. He directed us here, so maybe he's trying to show how Lucifer and Moriarty are related. And if Sherlock and Moriarty had some huge rivalry going on when they were both alive…"

He trails off and pops open a cabinet above the sink, squinting at its spiderwebbed interior.

"And if they did?" I prompt, raising my eyebrows.

"I don't know. It doesn't all fit together quite yet, but… I'm just saying. There are a lot of things that could be going on here."

"Yeah, no shit." I flinch as some sort of cockroach-type thing skitters across the floor a few feet away from me, rounding the corner and hastily disappearing. "God, this is nasty… whoever killed Irene Adler sure didn't keep a clean place."

"I really doubt that housekeeping is at the top of a serial killer's priority list, Dean."

I deign to ignore him, instead waiting in silence for a few moments before starting off on a completely unrelated topic, and one that'll hopefully irritate him. "Anyways," I say, leaning against a creaky wall. "How about that Gwen Cooper?"

He turns around so fast that his overlong hair actually slaps at his cheeks. I can't help but snort, ducking my head and glancing up at him with complete incredulity. "Someone feeling a bit jumpy?"

"What_ about_ Gwen Cooper?" He sounds stiff. Positively icy. Adorable.

"Well, she sure doesn't seem to be able to get enough of you. Feel like paying her off a little? Got a taste for Welsh women?"

"I d—she's fine. Just… she's fine," he gets out, staring pointedly at the ceiling.

I can't deny that this is a bit delightful. He's like an eight-year-old caught with his first crush. "Fine, huh? I wouldn't have thought she was your type, to be honest. A little bit—"

"We don't need to talk about it," he snaps in a way that just reeks of sass. My eyebrows tilt up even higher, and I can't help but shake my head, laughing. He huffs and begins to rifle through the sink cabinet again, not even examining things as he runs his fingers over them.

"Dude, you don't need to look at the toothbrushes. There's not going to be a cell phone hidden in their bristles, okay? Just a large helping of psychopath spit."

He carefully tightens his expression into a mask of exasperation, and his just opening his mouth to tell me off for something or other when Sherlock's sharp voice comes from the bedroom, where we left him and Molly.

"Winchester! Get in here!"

Sam and I glance at each other. He shrugs, I nod, and we silently resolve to both go. I keep my gun held aloft as we move down the halls, just in case his urgency had a source. But as soon as I round the corner to the bedroom, I see that he's holding a small, sleek mobile device in one hand, twirling it almost boredly between his fingers. Molly remains next to the wall of taped-up photographs, no longer staring at Moriarty, but instead examining each of those beneath his. I try not to be chilled by my own faded green eyes, fixated on me from the dusty confines of a paper picture. Instead, I return to Sherlock, who's looking annoyingly proud of himself.

"Where did you find that?" Sam asks, his eyes widening.

"Hidden compartment in the gun rack. I'd expect you two to be more thorough, if this is really what you do for a living."

Defensiveness rears up inside of me. "Actually, it's a lot more killing demons than wasting our time looking for cell phones," I retort. Sherlock raises a single eyebrow, and my knuckles tighten at how damn arrogant he is. It's flat-out obnoxious, really. Do all Brits have to be total dicks? Well, the Doctor is alright, in a totally wacko way, but I'm really not sure if he qualifies.

"That doesn't matter, though," Sam cuts in. "As long as we have it—are you sure that's the right phone?"

"It is," Molly speaks up quietly from where she stands by the pictures. "But… it's locked."

Sherlock nods and flips the screen in our direction. Sure enough, the display is black, save only a few careful white letters and four empty boxes: I A LOCKED. The first of the blank spots has a small black underscore blinking inside of it—waiting for a password to be entered.

"Great," I mutter. "Just what we need. A lock."

"It's okay," Molly speaks up, straightening her ponytail nervously. "The Doctor will have some sort of technology for hacking into it, probably."

"Fine, then. Let's get the hell out of this dump," I declare.

Sam herds the other two back towards the TARDIS, but I take a moment to approach the wall of images. There really are a lot of them, I recognize. Familiar, unrecognizable—

Castiel.

My heart just about flips itself the hell over. His vivid azure eyes, shining at me from out of a photo that's glossier than the rest, seem to carve my lungs right out of me, and it takes a moment for me to catch my breath. It's him, alright. This son of a bitch, whoever he is, has Cas on his wall. Without thinking about what I'm doing, I reach forward and rip the photo away, not caring that the tape takes a few thick flakes of the already water-stained wallpaper with it. I'm not going to leave it here until he has the chance to paint it through with a red X like the other ones. No fucking way.

"Dean!" Sam calls from back in the living room. I cast one more contemptuous look at the wall, then turn back on my heel and follow his voice, stuffing Cas's picture into my jacket pocket, where hopefully no one will notice it.

* * *

"Well, she's certainly rigged this up quite nice." The Doctor sounds more impressed than frustrated as he turns the phone over and over in his fingers, poking and prodding at seemingly random bits on its casing. "Deletes all the data if you enter more than three incorrect passwords, and there are little _explosives _tucked into it in case someone tries to physically pry their way into the hard drive… masterpiece, this one is."

"But we're not here to admire it, we want to get in," I remind him tightly. We've filled everyone in on what we found—not just the cell, but also the guns and the pictures. Molly has been keeping a frigid distance from the Doctor, who seems entirely oblivious. I can't help but feel a bit bad for the girl—the guy she's after doesn't even notice when she stops favoring him.

"And get in we will!" The Doctor pushes up the seemingly unnecessary goggles that he'd had pulled down over his eyes, and lifts the phone up to the light, as if trying to see through it. "All in good time, of course, but it _should _be a simple matter of…"

His thumb taps on it four times, and a grin cracks his face. "We're in."

"What was it?" Amy asks curiously, leaning in to try and see over his shoulder.

"S-H-E-R. Sherlocked. She was having fun with it," he chuckles, then brings it back down to regular height and begins to apparently flip through the data stored on it.

"How did you guess that?" Gwen questions in wonder. "How did you know—? It could have been anything, couldn't it? Any random combination of digits?"

"Well, yes, _technically, _but who really does that? You're bound to forget it. We know that Irene was infatuated with Sherlock—"

"No… we don't," Amy contradicts.

A childish scowl forms on the Doctor's face. "Is no one keeping up with me, now? Of course she was! If she had information somehow relating to his deal, then she must have been digging in pretty deep. That's not the sort of thing that you stumble into accidentally. She must have had quite an interest in him… and with a lock screen like that, who wouldn't take advantage?"

Sherlock takes in this whole speech without saying a word, but there's a definite hint of a frown line twitching between his eyebrows. He's frustrated, I can assume, that the Doctor made such a deduction while he couldn't. So the genius is being outdone, now. Nice.

"It doesn't matter much, anyways," Rose interjects. "The important part is that we're in, right?"

"It is indeed! And, if I'm right—yes, right here!" An even more triumphant expression comes over the Doctor's features. "Holmes-Winchester family tree—"

_"Holmes-Winchester?" _I choke without thinking. The Doctor hesitates, frowning as though he can't see what's wrong, then his whole face morphs into an expression of absolute delight.

"Yes, Holmes-Winchester! Exactly!"

"No, that—that doesn't make any damn _sense,_" I insist. I glare over at Sherlock, and he returns the look without hesitating. There's no way I can be related to a prick like that. No friggin' way.

Right?

"It doesn't make much sense, no, but it's right here." The Doctor shrugs widely. "The original family name was just Holmes—looks like a load of you split off in the nineteenth century, though, headed over to America instead and called yourselves the Winchesters. It's distant, but if we trace it right…" His fingernail scrapes at the phone's small rectangle of a screen. "There's a direct bloodline between Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes and Sam and Dean Winchester. You're the only surviving descendants of a particularly isolated branch of the family—cousins several times removed, but cousins nonetheless."

Cousins. _Sherlock._ I can't decide whether to be amused, excited, or disgusted. A weird mix of all three is what ends up settling over me. "Okay, but—I've never _met _him before. And why the hell does a _dominatrix _care if we're related?"

"She doesn't. Not necessarily. Like I said, she was probably just gathering information on Sherlock, and this happened to be part of it."

"But Crowley knew that she had this, through some source or other…" Sam puts in. "And he directed us towards her. This means something, somehow. It's more than just the _fact _that we're extended family, it—"

His jaw falls open just as it hits me.

_He's after a new vessel. _

"That's it." I half-laugh—I can't help it; this is all so ridiculous.

"What's it?" Amy demands warily.

"Michael and Lucifer—Michael and Lucifer were going to use Mycroft and Sherlock," Sam breathes, his eyes alight as all the facts fall into place. "That's why Mycroft brought Sherlock back—because the angels would have otherwise, and he needed to make sure that Sherlock didn't get the wrong side of the story first. Which also explains why he was so willing to sacrifice himself… they're probably going to bring Mycroft back, too, if we can't stop them fast enough. It's happened to Dean and me before," he goes on as various noises of disbelief fill the space. "We got killed, went to Heaven—and this angel, Zachariah, he was _hunting _us up there. Trying to bring us back. That's probably where Mycroft is right now. He must have been relying on us—on you, Doctor—to find Sherlock and make sure he had the right information."

"…And that's why that dude tried to kill me," I realize. "Mycroft and Sherlock might be even _more _ideal vessels than us—I mean, they're brothers, right? Maybe they resemble Michael and Lucifer's relationship even more than we do, and if we're related, then they have whatever essential blood crap is needed… And we know too much at this point, so they were going to get us out of the way. But there's no reason to use a stupid human sniper, unless…"

_"Cas,_" Sam breathes. "They knew that Cas was protecting us, and they had to send someone that he wasn't expecting. So they send this guy—persuade him somehow—"

"Moriarty," I supply eagerly, "they were going to bring Moriarty back—"

"And it was _Moriarty _who had the special picture in that apartment. Dean, we were just in the apartment of the man who tried to kill you."

We stare at each other for quite a while, breathing heavily and completely ignoring the amazed stares of everyone else in the room. It's all become clear at once, and I don't know whether to laugh or scream. Crowley _was _right. We have one enemy—Lucifer, and with Lucifer, Moriarty and this blonde man, the one who—

"Sebastian Moran," the Doctor declares.

I jerk my head around, staring at him. "Moran?" I repeat. It's a bizarre, unfamiliar name, its emphasis foreign on my tongue.

He waves the phone in the air in explanation, then squints down at it, seeming to read the lines of tiny black text that now dominate the screen. "Right-hand man of James Moriarty. His… head sniper, apparently."

"How would Adler know about Moriarty?" Sherlock murmurs. "Unless… oh, but of course. If she was interested in me, naturally she'd be interested in him."

"Wh-what do you mean… _naturally?_" Molly asks timidly. It's the first time she's spoken since we entered the TARDIS, and her lips quiver as she speaks, her wide brown eyes unblinking.

"We were practically two sides of the same coin," Sherlock replies quickly. "And with a role like hers, she probably had no problem working through her web of resources to find Moriarty… and those working with him. Doctor—what else is there on Moran?"

"Internationally renowned assassin." A distasteful scowl forms on the Doctor's face. "Scottish—and, here, there's a picture."

I edge over to him and slant a look down at the screen. It's returned by the steely eyes of a muscular blonde man, who manages to seem angry even in pixel-form.

"That's him," I confirm. "The one who tried to kill me."

"And the one whose flat you just ransacked," Amy adds.

"So it would seem."

"Well, we don't have to worry about him, anyways," Sam insists. "If we're in the middle of a time vortex right now, it's not like he can reach us. He doesn't have any way of tracking us, anyways, does he? No more so than any other human, that is. We're safe out here."

"Safe from him, maybe." It's Rose who speaks up, her brown eyes wide, lifted to the ceiling as if she can detect something that we don't. "But didn't you say something about a… Cas… protecting you?"

"Yeah, he keeps an eye on us, makes sure that—"

Oh.

Shit.

Cas is gone.

Rose's voice is shaking now. "We may be safe from Moran," she breathes, just as the TARDIS begins to tremble noisily, the jarring movement extreme enough so that several others gasp and reach for handholds. "But what about the angels?"

As if cued by her words, a pillar of white light erupts beside the TARDIS console, its eye-singeing beams ricocheting in every direction. I bark out an expletive and throw my hands in the air, but it's useless—by the time I've shielded my face, he's already fully materialized.

It's him.

It's Lucifer.

Still in that same vessel as before, with his shaggy blonde hair shadowing his dark eyes, a wicked smirk twisting the corner of his mouth, his hands hanging at his sides. Maybe it's just the light—it's got to be—but I could swear that his fingertips are stained crimson.

He moves fast. I barely have time to think before he's suddenly right next to me, wrapping a hand around my wrist. It burns like a brand where our skin meets, and I fight to rip away, hissing through my teeth, but there's no time. I barely manage to get out a strangled "son of a _bitch_" before a whirling void of vivid silver light fires up from behind my eyes, and my legs tingle with numbness, the firm sensation of the ground completely vanishing below them. I can't feel anything around me, can't even feel myself—all I can sense is the immense, sickening pressure pressing down on me from all sides, and Lucifer's grip on my wrist. My mind is whirling—what the hell happened? How did it happen so fast? How did Lucifer even _find _us in the goddamn time vortex? But then I'm crashing to the ground, released from the fierce clench and falling forward, so that my elbow and jaw collide with metal. My teeth fly down on my tongue, drawing blood, and pain shoots through my body.

I groan. Everything's cold, from the air touching my skin to the floor below me. It smells rusty here—wherever _here _is—or maybe that's just the blood filling my mouth. I spit it out violently, stretching my eyes wide in an attempt to see so much as an inch in front of my eyes. I'm rewarded with nothing but Lucifer's snorting, giggly laugh from somewhere above me.

"Oh, that _was _good, wasn't it?" he drawls. Footsteps edge their way around my head, and I force myself onto my knees, even though my whole body is still stinging, and my stomach heaves in every damn direction from the stupid angel transport.

"Yeah, just _marvelous," _I snarl sarcastically.

"I was lingering around a bit, I'll admit. Waiting for the perfect _dramatic _moment…" A shuffling comes from what must be the other side of whatever room I'm in. I begin to feel the floor around me with my hands, searching for who knows what. It's smooth but cracked, and feels like it might be cold cement, dampened in a few places by shallow, icy puddles. As the last bits of ringing in my ears fade away, I realize that there's a dripping noise all around me, constant but erratic.

"But I've got you here now," Lucifer continues brightly. "Both of you. And I've been looking forward to this for a _long _time, I'll admit."

"Both of us?" I breathe. Did he take someone else, too? _Did he take Sam? _In response, a shaky breath emerges from the air beside me, and warm fingers suddenly brush against the back of my hand. I flinch, but then relax as she whispers into my ear.

"Who is it?" Rose asks frantically.

Shit, Rose. Wincing, I mutter back as quietly as I can, even knowing that softened speech won't evade the Devil's ears. "Lucifer… it's Lucifer."

"Live and in person," Lucifer confirms brightly.

A clicking noise echoes through wherever we are, and then a sputtering buzz accompanies a few long bars of yellow light above us, which flicker to live and illuminate a long, dingy warehouse. Abandoned warehouse. _Classic. _I curl my fingers into my palms, tightening them so that the nails cut into the flesh. A few huge metal racks, entirely bare, fill the space like skeletons, but the place must've been abandoned for a long time—there isn't any sort of merchandise in here, none at all. I can't see doors; after a few yards, the light gives way to darkened pools. Only the small area that we're in is lit.

I glance over to Rose. Her brown eyes are huge, but luckily not teary. She's tough. Good. Her eyebrows are drawn together and her jaw parted slightly, taking in the vision of Lucifer, who stands with his back to us, facing a low table and seeming to run his hands over one another.

"So, Dean… it's been passed through the grapevine that you took ahold of one of my girls the other day. Tortured the hell out of her… pun _not _intended… and then sent her back home, is that right?" A dangerous edge is lingering in the undercurrent of his voice, and foreboding begins to stir in my stomach. "Well, I'd say it's about time I return the favor."

_Rose, _I think immediately. Of course, that's why he brought her with—he had no reason to spend the extra energy needed to pull along multiple people with him, not unless he had a use for them… dammit. He's going to make me watch as he tortures Rose. I know he is.

"No, not Rose…"

I jolt, wondering if he's somehow read my thoughts, but the look on his face shows that he was expecting me to believe as much. Not Rose? Is he going to hurt _me? _I can't figure out if that's better or worse. Better, surely. I'm more used to pain than this innocent girl. I've got to be. I'm just beginning to relax when Lucifer drawls on, glee growing more and more evident in his tone.

"That darling girl was brought here for other purposes. Bait, namely. I mean to drag all of your friends 'round, of course—Sammy most importantly, there's no use for me to have the brawn without the brains—but I could hardly transport the entire blue box… not without tiring out a bit, that is. And I don't want to tire out, you see. I want to _enjoy _what's coming."

Okay, so he's definitely going to torture me. That's it. That's got to be it.

He snaps his fingers, lazily, and a dark-eyed demon woman slinks out of the shadows. I don't recognize her, or at least not her vessel—she's ginger-haired, scantily clad, slim—normally, I'd be taking interest, but at the moment I honestly couldn't care less. I don't try to stop her from dragging Rose off, even as the blonde protests desperately; I know that protesting is only going to put us in more danger right now. I need to _think, _dammit. There's got to be a way out. There's always a way out.

Rose's cries fade into the shadows. My heart is hammering rapidly now, sweat beginning to break out on my palms—this is the very _Devil, _and his torture methods are probably even more refined than Alistair's—shit, I don't want to go through this again, I don't, I _can't. _My lungs are moving in jerky, jarring movements now, my breath coming in short bursts that send tingling numbness through my skull. Everything about me wants to run—run away from this and never come back, because I can't even _think _about going through Hell again, and surely Lucifer's going to make this at least that. I'm frantic. Growing more and more so by the second as my body fully processes what the hell's going on, and adrenaline rushes through me like fire on oil as Lucifer turns around from his table, stepping aside to reveal that it's strapped up with thick bindings. They seem to have symbols burned or inked into them—weird, I can't help but think. It's not like I can break out of solid leather.

My stomach twitches slightly sideways just before it happens. Like some sort of warning. My body registers it before I do.

"Bring him on out, now, there's a good girl," Lucifer trills into the shadows. A low laugh emerges from them, and then a second demon girl is slinking out, a wicked smile in place on her blandly attractive features.

My throat seals up.

I don't want to see what's behind her.

I don't want to see the torn trench coat. Not the slender shoulders, hunched in defeat. The messy hair, sticking up in every direction, something that I'd normally find adorable.

Pure azure eyes lifted to mine, communicating heavy apology.

His voice rasps.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"No." I force the word out as fast as I can, using up all of the air in my lungs with the single syllable. I choke, trying to drag more in, and I want to be able to glare at Lucifer, but I can't take my eyes off of _him. _"No. You can't do this."

"I _can _do it," the Devil purrs. "And I _am._"

"No you _fucking _aren't!" I shout, so loud that I swear the tissue of my throat rips. Ignoring the pain that's still bruising my elbow and ribcage, I force myself to my feet, only in time for Lucifer to flick his wrist and send me flying back against the wall, cracking my head against it heavily. I gasp as invisible bonds force me to the cold, flat surface, pushing as hard as I can without looking away from Cas. "Like you gave a _shit _about that demon!" I bellow in Lucifer's direction. "You couldn't care less whether she lived or died! You don't care about any of your damned _children, _do you? You don't get it! You don't know what it's like to—to…"

"To _what, _exactly?" Lucifer slinks in closer, crossing over and obscuring my view of Cas. "To _love _someone?"

I can't think. Can't function. The Devil's laughter fills my ears, and the sight of Castiel seems to burn before me, so that my whole body is shaking as the demon girl forces him onto the table, quickly and expertly pulls the leather straps around his legs and wrists.

"Fight, you son of a bitch!" I cry out, straining and trembling. "Fight her off!"

"I'm sorry," Cas repeats, his head lolling on the table so that those sorrowful damn eyes can reach me, fill me with their mild yet flaming blueness. "Dean, I tried…"

I feel like I'm gonna hurl. Seeing him like this, weak, defeated—_knowing _that the last time I was near him, I yelled in his face, told him he treated us like children—hell, he returned it. For at least a moment, I thought he hated me. And it hurt—fuck, it hurt, of course it did, that's _why _I tortured the fucking demon in the first place, but now it's all coming back, and positive and negative and God knows what are all colliding inside of me and I can't breathe, _I can't breathe. _

"So, how shall we start?" Lucifer muses as his demon servant melts back into the shadows. "I've got this angel blade, awfully convenient…" Something flashes in his hand as though it's materialized there, and I can make out the shape of a strongly formed, sharply pointed silver knife through the gloom.

I force myself harder than ever against the invisible bonds, gasping for air and yelling out protests that probably don't even form coherent words anymore. I can't watch this happen. I can't.

Lucifer steps closer, rounds the table so that I can see all of Cas, every bit of him, from the darkness of his hair to his battered shoes, limp on the scarred metal surface. The lights flicker, just ever so slightly, and the amber tones of the whole scene waver, increasing my nausea. Cas blinks, slowly, his eyes wide as he stares at me, as though he's memorizing the sight before him. Then Lucifer raises the blade, and Cas's head falls back onto the table with a heavy thud that rings through my skull.

"No," I say, not even thinking anymore, just knowing that this can't happen, that I _won't let it happen. _"No."

Lucifer beams at me, his eyes crinkling up in the corners with merriment, and the blade goes plunging down.

My scream is louder than Cas's. Both echo through the huge building, reverberating throughout it, and my vision is pure _red _as a crimson stain sprays through the air, dashing over the floor. A hollow buzzing echoes through me, and I feel myself sagging, a desperate sob tight in my throat as Cas groans and twitches, his muscles contorting in spasms around the wound that Lucifer has cut along the side of his ribs.

"He's your brother!" I howl, my words distorted by the hot tears that are blurring my vision, turning it all to a messy watercolor of gray and scarlet. "Your _brother! _How can you do this to him?"

"How?" Lucifer poises a hand under his chin for a moment, his features twisting up into a mock-thoughtful expression. "Hm… with extreme joy, I'd say." The knife comes down again, this time drawing a careful line of what must be absolute white-hot fire along Cas's leg, and the shout that emerges from my throat is entirely involuntary.

It's a wonder that I even register his words. Somehow, there are tears on my cheeks, though I don't remember them escaping my eyes, and my entire mind is consumed by Cas's shrieks, by how primitive they are, how raw, unlike anything I've ever heard out of him before. It's not a sound that I could ever have imagined him to make.

"If you let him die—" I sound hoarse. Half-dead. I'm watching everything like it's through some sort of gray mist, and my words take too long to come to my lips. "If you let him die, you _son _of a _bitch_, then you will wish that your sorry little ass had never even been _imagined _by your daddy."

"Well, what do you _think_ I'm going to do?" Lucifer laughs briefly, as though the very idea is ridiculous. His tone is so light. So careless. "It's not like I'm going to send him back to Heaven, is it? Of course he has to die."

The lights flicker again as he dashes the blade over Cas's chest, and through my tears and the lingering haze, I can see dark wings, just barely—expanding outwards from my angel's shuddering shoulders, thrashing and twisting as though caught in a biblical gale as his cry seems to shake the foundation of the very earth itself.


	12. Chapter 11: Amy Pond

**Thanks to** _azebra117__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Amy Pond

And I'm wondering why I still fight in this life  
'Cause I've lost all my faith in this damn bitter strife  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

It takes me exactly three seconds to realize that Rose is gone.

For the first one and a half, I'm too caught up in confusion at _what the hell just happened _to worry about anything. I glance around as the TARDIS's lights finally stop sputtering and settle to the usual steady glow—everyone seems to be wearing an identical expression of shock; even Sherlock's eyes are wider than usual. The next second is spent cataloguing just who I see—Dean is gone, but that's to be expected. But… also…

My double take lasts half a second, and then it hits me.

"No," I gasp, and the Doctor is at my side before my legs vanish from underneath me. He holds my arms, looks into my eyes.

"Amy, listen. We're going to get her back. Amy—"

"N-no, she's gone, she's gone," I repeat, half-laughing at myself. My words catch in my throat, and I feel tears in my eyes, suddenly there without explanation. I'm hollow. Empty. Not numb; it's not as if I can't sense my emotions, but rather like they aren't there at all, like they were all tied to Rose and her departure whisked them clean out, leaving me with only a raw ache where they were torn away.

"She is _not _gone, Amy, I'm going to get her. We're going to get her. Everything is going to be fine, Amelia, do you understand?"

"Stop—_stop._" I try to pull away from his grip, but all my limbs are feather-light and just as weak. I slump forward instead, as though my legs simply give up beneath me, and I feel his body tense in surprise as suddenly he's the only thing keeping me from crashing to the floor. I don't care. My heart is throbbing now, the pangs growing steadily greater and greater. "Stop lying to me, Doctor," I whisper into his shoulder, feeling my tears wet the fabric almost instantaneously. I don't know how he can hear my tiny whisper, and I shake my head, whimpering. "She's gone, the Devil took her, we can't get her back now…"

"Amy, what are you _saying _to yourself?" He forces me back from him, gripping my other arms. I don't even think about the others in the room. Rose isn't here, and I could hardly care less about anything else. "We always beat them, remember? All those times, you and me. I can rescue her. _We _can rescue her. You and me and the TARDIS, yeah?" He tries to smile, but his eyes are dull, lacking of their usual adventurous sparkle. I'm not fooled. "We're never defeated."

"Rory was defeated," I tell him quietly, and even his faked grin falls from his features like a mask made of dry paper. "Rory's dead, you didn't bring him back…" I don't know why I'm not yelling. I should be yelling. I deserve to yell. But all I can do is murmur, breathe my quiet disbelief and wonder what on Earth happened to land me here. "Why do I always have to lose them?"

"You didn't lose Rose." His fingers are cutting into my arms now, gripping tighter than he surely must intend, and yet I barely feel them. I barely feel anything. "She's alive, she's somewhere, and we're _going to find her!_"

Sam's voice suddenly filters through my awareness, cleaves the uneasy silence surrounding me and the Doctor in two. "He's right, Amy," he promises. I frown slightly and look over at him. His chin is lifted, his eyes dark, and he draws his words out with intent precision. "We're going to get Rose back, just like we're going to get Dean back. None of us are letting either of them go. Are we?"

"Never," Gwen promises, stepping closer to Sam while meeting my tear-filled hazel eyes with her large, dark ones. She folds her arms, the sleeves of her leather jacket rippling under the light.

"Of course not!" Molly agrees emphatically, looking scandalized at the very notion of letting Dean and Rose go.

Sherlock hesitates the longest, and by the coldness of his expression, I think for a long moment that he's going to remain silent, or even contradict the others' determination with some icy display of logic. But when he finally speaks, his words are strong, each carefully chosen and hitting the air like individual bullets.

"If Lucifer and Moriarty are on the same side in this, then that means that Moriarty is still out there somewhere. Whether it be on Earth or in Hell, that monster is still killing. And I will not allow him to take one more life. Not _one._"

"Now _this _is the kind of companion that I'm looking for!" the Doctor exclaims, moving his arm over the four of them—Sam, Gwen, Molly, and Sherlock—in a sweeping motion. "Look at you lot, you're all so _brilliant, _yes you are! _Humans,_" he adds with a wink at me, "it really doesn't get any better than good old humans."

I can almost smile. Almost. At least, a faint flicker of fire is beginning to brush at my insides, a tiny, hopeful thought that maybe this isn't so impossible after all. Maybe I really can do this. Maybe _we _really can do this.

"Are we really going to get Rose back?" I ask him. My voice is small, like the plaintive mew of a kitten, but I don't care. I just need him to answer me. I need to know the truth.

"Of course we are, Pond," he insists, gripping my hand as hard as he can, and, for some stupid reason, I believe him.

* * *

"It's in here _somewhere, _it's got to be," the Doctor insists, throwing something over his shoulder. I dodge just in time for what seems to be a wooden wand to clatter onto the TARDIS's floor next to me. It's tailed by a heavy book, the spine of which splays on the ground. I crouch down and turn it over, just barely managing to make out the faded gold letters against its leather binding. _The Nice and Accurate—_

I yelp and drop the book in my effort to dodge the next missile that comes my way, this time in the form of a plastic toy dinosaur. Next is a golden pin shaped like a bird, followed by an airline pilot's cap, a wadded-up towel, and a clown horn that honks as it bounces. Finally, the Doctor lets out a triumphant "A_ha_" and resurfaces from the compartment that he's been digging in, his hair mussed up and a triumphant expression in place on his features. Clutched in his hand is a blocky, rectangular bit of technology, a bit smaller than a paperback book and more square-like in shape. "Fixed it up a while back, after the first Moriarty incident—it should do much more than detect someone's presence on a planet now."

He's told me about this device, though I never saw him use it back where Rory died. Apparently it was with its help that his younger self realized the Master was on the planet. It's used for tracking, he had explained—a little compartment opens up inside, you drop in a bit of a person's DNA, and voila—their location is instantly provided. Or, well, supposedly. It was broken last time he tried to use it, and I can't say I'm entirely convinced that he's managed to fix it. It still looks rather damaged, in any case, battered and singed around the edges, but I shrug and hold out the thin blonde hair that I'd found clinging to my shirt earlier.

"Wonderful, thanks…" He nudges it inside of the compartment and flips its small lid shut, watching intently as the numbers on its tiny, silver-lit screen scroll rapidly. A number of coordinates finally fill themselves in across it, and a grin settles over his face.

"Brilliant, it's right on Earth—Minnesota, it looks like. Right next to where we were before. For being the Devil, this bloke sure doesn't seem to have much of an imagination…"

"Minnesota?" I repeat, leaning in. Upon closer expression, these aren't any numbers I'm familiar with, but rather squiggly lines looped into figures that only almost resemble Earthen numerals. "Still in the US?"

"Apparently so." He grabs my arm and pulls me up, leading me out into a hall off of the storage closet that we've been rummaging through. Both of our feet thud on the ground heavily, and my heart increases rapidly—I can almost smile. We're getting Rose back. _We're getting Rose back. _In just minutes, probably, I'm going to have her. I'm going to be able to feel her and hold her again—and I'm going to kiss her, of course, probably harder than I ever have before, just to taste her again, to memorize her and remind myself over and over just how lucky I am that she's here for me, that she always is.

"No time to waste, then!" The Doctor bounds immediately over to the controls from the second we set foot in the console room. "Off we go—"

"Wait." It's Sherlock who speaks up, from where he's standing on the other side of the room, looking up from what seems to have been a soft conversation with Molly. Gwen and Sam are near the door, each with a paintbrush in hand and a bucket of silvery paint sitting on the ground, forming intricate signs and sigils over the inside of the TARDIS's door.

"No time for waiting!" the Doctor shoots back. "We've got them, and now we're—"

"No. _Think_," he growls. "We can't merely barge in. There's a reason why he took Rose—you do realize that, don't you?"

"What do you mean… _reason?_" Gwen questions doubtfully from across the room.

It couldn't be clearer that Sherlock's fighting to hold himself back from rolling his eyes. "I mean that Lucifer is only interested in Dean—or at least _should _be. And me, as well, though if what the Winchesters said is true, he probably doesn't want to behave violently towards me, at least not yet. He needs to convince me to let him use me as a vessel, and he's not going to achieve that by harming me. But other than me and Dean, and perhaps Sam, there's no reason that she should care for any of us. And yet he took Rose. Why? Obviously, because he needed _bait._"

My stomach sinks like a stone, as if his final word was the impact of it hitting a lake's surface. Everything seems to plummet as the expressions of those around me drop—all except for the Doctor's. He just adjusts his bowtie proudly. "Well. Sure. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't go. They have no idea what the TARDIS is capable of, those demons and angels. This old girl has some moves that they with their big feathery wings can't even dream of. Don't you, sexy?" He raps her wall affectionately.

I can't help but be both amused and heartbroken by how wounded his tone is. He wants to be right. He's trying his very hardest to be right, to make excuses when he finds that he isn't succeeding, and I don't think it's all because of him. It's because of me. He wants me to know that he's confident, so that I don't break down again.

The Doctor's holding out hope so that I don't give up.

"It's true," I agree defensively when Sherlock opens his mouth to object again. The dark-haired detective quirks an unimpressed eyebrow in my direction, and I shrug. "I mean, if you really think about it, why _should _Lucifer know anything about the TARDIS? There were never any angels on Gallifrey, were there, Doctor?"

"If there were, they left us well alone," he confirms.

"So, there." I stare Sherlock down as hard as I can. "We can be strategic, but we aren't going to hold back just because they want us to come. I'm going to get Rose. No matter what. And if they have it in mind that they're just going to capture me along the way to that, well, I'd like to see them try."

"Hear, hear!" the Doctor agrees brightly. Sherlock groans through his nose, but doesn't protest any farther. "Now, Gwen, Sam, if you'd be so fine as to pack up your paints—"

"'Course." Sam gives one more flourish to a complex symbol that takes up most of the upper half of the door, then drops the brush into the paint can and gestures that Gwen do the same. "It should be much more angel-proof now," he promises as he lugs the can back over our way, "but since the actual form of the TARDIS is in multiple dimensions at once, it can be hard to keep them out through a single protected side."

"Much appreciated, both of you. Now, everyone, Sherlock _is _right on one account, here—we should at least have some sort of plan. So, here it is: I'll lead Sam and Gwen in to get Rose and Dean, the rest of you stay here. Simple."

"Wait," I interject. My voice sounds just as dangerous as I feel, and I hope that I misheard him, for all of our sakes. "Did you say… you expect _me _to stay?"

The Doctor shifts a bit, clearly uncomfortable. "You're pregnant, Amy," he reminds me, not meeting my eyes. "You need to look after the baby. This could be dangerous."

"If this is dangerous, then that means that Rose is in danger." My words are low and intense—not twisted with desperation, but rather determinedly even, showing the Doctor that I'm absolutely serious about what I'm saying. "This child is going to live with both of its parents or not at all."

I've never called Rose the baby's parent before.

And maybe the Doctor notices that, too, because something in his face definitely changes. He sighs, as if in defeat, and lets his head hang for a full three seconds before jerking it back up again. "Fine. Sam, Gwen, and Amy, with me. But you're to _do what I say, _and never wander off or start obeying your own rules instead of mine. The only way we're going to make it through this is if we're all working together."

"The whole lot of you going," Sherlock muses. "A lot of action and anger, hardly any _brains._"

A scowl flickers over my face, and I wonder if I should be offended. "If this goes well, we won't need brains," I reply simply. But I can't help but murmur my next words in an undertone to the Doctor: "We do have _some _sort of plan, right?"

"Of course we do." He hesitates for a moment, and I raise my eyebrows, but he frowns defensively and flicks me on the tip of the nose with his sonic screwdriver, eliciting a yelp of surprise. "It's easy. We, well… we land where they are, and pull them into the TARDIS, and, er… get out of there."

That's _it? _But even as the logical part of my brain tells me that this is ridiculous, that we need something more material, I don't want to waste the time. I need to see Rose _now. _"Fine," I agree, "let's go."

The Doctor seems to pilot the TARDIS faster than ever, his hands literally blurring as they fly over its controls. It strikes me then that he's probably just as worried about Rose as I am, even if he doesn't say anything about it. He's known her longer than me, after all—years longer—and I know that his Tenth regeneration, at the very least, was clearly infatuated with her. I've never considered before that he might be jealous of me, but the thought comes up now, teasing around the edges of my mind. I shake it off hurriedly. The Doctor's happy that Rose and I are together, I know he is. She's just his friend now, same as me. Just his companion.

The TARDIS's landing seems much more abrupt than usual, somehow. Tension fills the air as all of go silent, our gazes slowly shifting to the angel-proof door. We've got no idea where we are—the only thing that we can be absolutely positive about is that we're headed straight into a trap.

"Shall we?" the Doctor beams.

I nod silently, and he leads us towards the door. "Sherlock, Molly, stay behind," he reminds them, as if they aren't already practically frozen. "If we're taken—" His eyes lock with Molly's for a moment, and his voice goes quieter, more intense. "If we're taken, you need to get out of here. Don't hesitate. Don't try to save us. The TARDIS—the TARDIS will probably know where you want to go… Sherlock, mate, you've probably got at least some sort of grasp on the controls by now?"

His chin dips in a shallow nod. "I know the basic maneuvers at this point."

"Good. Then if we're captured, just get her moving, and she'll take you to a safe enough location…" He takes a deep breath. "Alright, everyone ready?"

He's the first one to open the door, and I'm right behind him, peering over his shoulder. Surprisingly, I'm greeted by complete darkness. I squint into it. The golden light pooling from the TARDIS illuminates a small area of cracked cement floor, and freezing air wreathes around me, so that I can't help but shiver, goosebumps rising on my skin. We slowly step out, Sam and Gwen at our heels, and Sam tips the door shut, sealing off our only light source.

A shuffling noise comes from the shadows, followed by a soft, feminine voice. "Doctor? …Amy?"

"Rose—" My mind goes blank. I shove past the Doctor, not thinking, and trip over the floor so that I fall to my hands and knees right and front of her. I can see her shape, now, just barely—a shadow within shadows—but her warmth touches my skin even from inches away. I reach forward and snake my arms around her shoulders, gasping as I wind my fingers through her hair and pull her in as close as I can. My eyes squeeze themselves shut, and I press my forehead to the fabric of her shirt, gulping in her scent as the tears begin to come again. "Rose… I thought—I thought you were gone…"

"I'm not…. I'm fine… Amy, I'm fine." Her hand brushes my cheek, and I pull back for a second. I can see the glimmer of her chocolate eyes, now, wide and dark, and I'm filled with such an intense surge of warmth that I feel as though I might collapse in on myself.

"You're safe," I say, leaning in and kissing her, hard. Her fingers move to my jaw, pressing lightly against it as her lips fully crush themselves to mine, and I allow myself several seconds of blind bliss, feeling her and knowing that she's there, that she's safe, _that she's safe. _

A nervous throat-clearing from the Doctor is what finally reminds me that we're not alone, and even if no one can see in here, I realize that I've hardly been quiet in my motions. My cheeks stain a deep crimson that no one can see, and I sit back on my heels, still not taking my hand away from Rose's shoulder.

"I'm fine," she continues, like I'd never done a thing to interrupt her. "But Dean isn't."

I can practically feel Sam tense behind me. "What's wrong?" he demands. "Where is he?"

"Just out there… we're in some sort of warehouse place, Lucifer brought us here and then threw me in this closet. I didn't see anything, but—there was screaming. A lot of it. It only stopped a few minutes ago…"

Sam mutters a string of curse words under his breath. The flick of a match echoes through the small space, and then orange light dances over us in a small, twisting stream. I blink as my eyes adjust, then look around, taking everything in. The five of us are cramped, like Rose said, into what seems to be a storage closet, judging by the few empty boxes piled in a corner. She's slumped against a wall, looking exhausted, and the TARDIS—

Gwen and I cry out at the exact same time. There's someone else in here with us, lounging against the bright blue wood. It's a young woman, slim and decked out in thin black leather. Her face is pale, surrounded by wavy, dark hair, and a smirk twists her thin lips, arms crossed almost lazily.

In a split second, Sam is staring at her, and the last thing I see is his wide-eyed, horrified face before the match sputters out. A light laugh, presumably from the unfamiliar woman, floats eerily through the air, and then a light bulb creaks to life overhead, illuminating the scene dimly.

"Getting slow, huh, Sammy?" She tilts her head and raises her eyebrows. "Or are you always this pathetic without Deano to back you up?"

"Meg." He spits out the name like a curse, and she blinks almost docilely. I can't help but gasp—when her eyes open again, they're pure, solid black, shining like oil under the light. Rose's hand tightens on my shoulder, and a heavy dose of pure _fear _slides through my veins. A demon. She's a demon.

"It's been a while, hasn't it? Haven't seen you since my dogs tore apart your precious Harvelles… and your _angel _had to absolutely humiliate me." Her lip curls. "It's been nice to get revenge on him, let me tell you…"

"You have Cas?"

"Oh, we've got _everyone _now, sweetheart. All of you tucked into one little warehouse. And I'm afraid I'm not going to let you get back to your time machine… you're _ours _now."

"The one you really want is Sherlock," I blurt out, "and he's not here."

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" I shudder as her pitch-black eyes glare over at me. "_I _don't care about him. He's Lucifer's toy. No, the set _I _want is the Winchesters. And since the angels don't need to wear your meat anymore… I reckon I can have a bit of fun with it."

"Where's Dean?" Sam demands, stepping closer to her.

"All in good time, sugar, you'll get to see your brother soon enough. And he is a _mess, _too, let me tell you. Who would've known that he was so attached to that little angel…?"

"_What did you do to him?" _

"Didn't even touch 'im," she promises boredly. "At least, not physically. Precious little Castiel, on the other hand…"

"Then, what did you do to Cas?" Rather than becoming shaky, Sam's voice is growing harder and darker with every word he spits out.

"Oh, you'll see soon enough," she promises. "I can barely _wait _to see the expression on your ugly little—"

"Thanks for your time. I appreciate it."

Out of seemingly nowhere, Sam has a knife—a long, serrated blade, engraved with ancient-looking symbols. Meg's eyes widen for an instant, but she doesn't have the chance to so much as flinch before he thrusts forward, piercing deep into her chest. The muscles in his arm tighten, and her mouth falls open, a light gasp falling from her lips. Sam leans in, his eyes icy, his glare deadly.

"I don't take it lightly," he hisses, twisting the knife slightly, "when people hurt my brother."

He wrenches it out then, and her eyes and mouth flash with golden light, stuttering as her shriek fills the air. Sam raises his chin, glaring in utter contempt as the young woman's body, now free of its demon, drops to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. None of us speak for what feels like a long time, and I can't help but feel like something huge just ended, something that I've barely brushed the surface of. Sam and Meg knew each other. How long had they? Were they enemies? Archenemies? Had they ever been friends?

Gwen speaks first. "Someone will have heard that," she breathes, glancing over at the door across from us.

The last word has barely left her mouth before it flies open, its many chain locks shattering immediately. Standing there is another demon, dark-eyed like Meg, but otherwise entirely different, taking the form of a heavyset, middle-aged man. He's closest to Rose and me, and I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat as he steps forward, but then Sam moves in front of it, the blade of his knife skating over the demon's throat. It bellows in shock, eyes and mouth flashing before it crumples to the floor.

Sam looks back over his shoulder. "Doctor, Amy, get back into the TARDIS," he barks. "Gwen and Rose, come with me."

"Sorry." I latch onto Rose's wrist, staring him down. "But she's not going anywhere without me."

He seems to bite back angry words, his head dipping in frustration, then he turns back to the Doctor. "Doctor, _go! _Get to the main part of the warehouse!"

The Doctor looks ready to object, but forces it down, nodding and dashing back into the time machine, which instantly fades away. I glance back to the door just in time to see Sam stabbing through the throat of a third demon, another woman. As soon as she's down, he hurries out, with Gwen right behind him. Rose and I follow—I try not to think about the dead bodies at our feet, or the fact that we're plunging into a nest of demons.

Two more try to stop us as soon as we exit the closet, but Sam works almost supernaturally fast, cutting them down before they can get within arm's length of him. We are indeed in a warehouse, the ceiling high above us and abandoned storage racks situated around us like walls of a maze.

"Dean!" Sam shouts at the top of his lungs. There's no response, and we continue to dash through the dusty labyrinth of cement and metal. He slices or stabs any demon who approaches us—they seem to never end. At one point, a group of three seem to melt into existence right in front of us, and Sam doesn't even break a sweat as he twists in place—sinking the dagger into the side of one's neck, pulling its dripping length out in time to tear it across another's throat and then plunge it firmly into the heart of the third. He's _scarily _cold with his actions, displaying no emotion at all, and giving no regard to the rest of us with the insane speed he's moving. I begin to lose my breath after a couple of minutes of flat-out running, and Rose grips my arm, pulling me along behind her. This can't be good for the baby, can it? I nearly trip over my own feet when Sam finally halts, blade held out from his side, and Gwen and Rose quickly stop behind him.

"Dean," he says simply, and as he rushes forward, I realize that we've come to a clearing in what must be the center of the building. Dean is slumped against a wall, his green eyes heavy-lidded in the low light. I follow him over, catching snatches of their conversation as Sam kneels before him, taking him by the shoulders and staring at him with a tender, almost vulnerable desperation.

"Sam… Cas… he…"

"It's alright, we're here now, okay?" Sam's fingers move over Dean's chin, where a thin trickle of blood runs down, starkly visible against his whitened skin. "Did he hurt you?"

"…Bit my tongue—Cas—get… Cas…" His voice is hoarse and cracked.

Rose's fingers suddenly clench tight on my wrist, and she murmurs in my ear. "Amy…"

I turn in her direction, and see that she's staring a little ways away. There's a table—almost surgical-looking—and on it is a body. My eyes widen, and she pulls me over. It's a man, his form completely limp and his head lolling, eyes closed. Every inch of him seems to be stained or splattered with blood, and the trench coat that he's wearing is ripped in what must be a hundred places. It seems to be tan, underneath a heavy overtone of rusty red from the wounds torn all along his body.

My stomach lurches.

"Is he…?" Rose whispers.

I can't stop myself from moving forward, my hand moving to ever-so-lightly touch his shoulder. He doesn't react, and I lift my fingers to his mouth. A slight, faint whisper of breath coasts over them, and I exhale in relief—I don't even know if this man is a friend or an enemy, yet I'm somehow glad that he isn't dead. "He's alive," I whisper.

"Cas…" Dean groans again.

_Cas. _Castiel. Is this him? Is this Dean's angel? He seems so small, somehow, smaller than I imagined, or maybe that's just his state, so utterly destroyed. I realize then that there are leather bindings around his wrists and calves, etched with dark symbols, and I hastily go about unstrapping them. "Help me out," I urge Rose, and she does, a bit reluctantly. As soon as the last buckle comes undone, his eyelids flutter for a moment, and I lean in closer, watching hopefully for a sign of consciousness.

"Cas?" I ask softly. His irises, though I can barely see them, are the precise color of lapis lazuli. It's breathtaking.

He stares hazily at me for a moment, and mumbled words come from his lips. Only one word, actually—a name. "Dean…"

"Dean's right over there," I promise. "He's fine, Cas, we're all fine. We're friends—we're going to get you out of here, okay?" As gently as possible, I slide an arm under his shoulders and lift him into a semi-sitting position, propping him up enough so that he can see Dean over my shoulder. "Don't worry about anything, just relax. We're here to save you, I promise."

"Just… get Dean… out of…" His muscles slacken against my arms, and his head falls back, eyes slipping shut again. I pull him into my chest, glancing over at Rose with wide eyes.

"We have to get them out of here," I whisper.

"Let me see him." It's Dean's voice, and I glance over to see him standing, supported on either side by Sam and Gwen. I'm reluctant to let Cas down again, so I merely turn, so that Dean can see the angel lying limp in my arms. His breath rushes out, and I swear I can see the swell of tears in his green eyes. "He's alive?"

"Definitely alive. He was just asking for you, but…"

"Christ… Cas, I'm here, damn it, I'm sorry—" His voice chokes up, and he shakes his head, clenching his teeth. Sam glances over concernedly, his arm tightening around his brother's waist. Dean looks away from Cas, up to me. "Is the Doctor coming?"

"He should be here any moment—where's Lucifer?"

"Right here, sweetheart. I was waiting for someone to bring me up… you'd think that I'd get more attention, but I suppose the pretty-boy angel is more important…"

I gasp and stare. Standing just behind Dean is Lucifer—I recognize him immediately, even though I saw him only for the briefest moment in the TARDIS. My stomach twists. "You can't stop us!" I half-yell. Resentment and fury build in my chest as I fully realize that this is the man who took Rose—who I thought would kill her. _Who still could—_no, I can't think that way, I _can't. _We have Rose now. She's safe.

I won't let him take her from me again.

"Darling, I'm the _Devil. _Getting away isn't going to be quite this simple."

"On the contrary," a bright voice declares, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once and accompanied by a wheezing, mechanical groan. "I'd say it's going to be simplicity itself."

I realize what's happening as Rose grips my shoulder and pulls desperately. I cinch my arms more tightly around Cas and pull him off the table, praying silently that it doesn't do any massive damage. Rose supports me before I can topple under his deadweight, and together we manage to stumble the few essential steps needed before the TARDIS closes in around us. It only takes a few seconds to go from fading half-presence to full solidity, and the last thing I see is Lucifer's shocked expression, moments later obscured by solid wall.

"We did it," I gasp, sinking to the floor. I laugh and shake my head in disbelief at our impossible escape, as my heart hammers out fiercely against my ribcage.

I'm so filled with relief, buzzing with triumph, that I barely feel as Cas's breath stutters to a halt.


	13. Chapter 12: Gwen Cooper

**A/N** _I wasn't originally intending to incorporate Sabriel, but it's my Supernatural OTP, so..._

**Thanks to** _azebra117, Cutiepi97__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

Gwen Cooper

And it's sad  
It's so damn sad  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"We did it," I breathe, unable to keep myself from laughing with utter triumph. _We did it. We did it. _Euphoria pumps through my veins, and a blast of pure energy runs through me from head to toe as the TARDIS completely solidifies. We've got them back. Rose, Sam's brother—even the angel, Castiel. They're all here, and we're safe. We escaped. We escaped the _Devil._ I shake my head slightly and laugh again.

Sam glances over at me. He's not smiling like I am, but I can see the joy in his eyes—the relieved gleam of getting his brother back. They're more attached than any two people I've ever seen, more co-dependent, and the secondhand delight I feel from Sam is practically enough to knock me over. Just seeing the two of them back together guides the smile on my face, so that I can't _stop _laughing, shaking my head at how ridiculous and wonderful it all is.

"That was brilliant," the Doctor chuckles, "you _have _to admit that was brilliant."

"Absolutely brilliant," Molly whispers, her eyes wide and glittering in the golden light. Then, before I can blink, she throws herself onto him, wrapping her arms around his thin shoulders, winding her fingers up in his dark hair, and kissing him as hard as she seemingly can. I won't deny that my mouth falls open slightly, and the Doctor himself looks even more shocked than I do, his arms flailing slightly in the air as he stumbles backwards. I force myself to look away—though they can't exactly expect _privacy _if they're just going to be all open like this—but then a crashing noise brings my attention back to the two of them. Molly quickly steps back, a heavy flush spreading over her face as she ducks her head away. It would seem that the two of them drove themselves straight into the TARDIS console, where he now half-stands, half-slumps, looking unashamedly amazed.

"I'm sorry," Molly mumbles quickly, reaching up to play with the end of her ponytail, "I—"

"Don't apologize," he replies, his voice a bit more quick and high than usual. She looks back up at him quickly, and, after a moment, they both smile at the exact same time. It lights up their features, and as I glance around, I can see that almost everyone else shares a similar expression—everyone, that is, except for Dean and Amy.

Amy looks up slowly, her hazel eyes wide, seemingly unaware of what just happened before her. Her voice shakes when she speaks.

"He's not breathing."

My stomach drops as my stare flits down to Castiel, still held loosely in her arms. Sure enough, something about him is horribly still, still in a way that no living thing ever could be.

My blood turns to ice.

"No," Dean gasps hoarsely. "_No—_"

"Dean," Sam pleads, his own eyes shining as he struggles to hold back his brother. But Dean just shakes his head, his face twisting into absolute desperation as he lunges forwards, restrained only due to his weakened state.

"No—let me see him, Cas, _Cas…_"

I have no idea what to say, or to do. My emotions have done a complete one-eighty in the last thirty seconds, and all I can really see is Castiel, how limp he is. I never even _knew _him. And yet… to see that his death does so much to Dean, does so much to _Sam…_

"He's gone," Rose half-mouths, like she can't believe it. "He's…"

"No. He's _not._" Dean's choked up, horribly so, and I can't even look at him. "He's not _dead_, goddammit—if he was—wings, when an angel dies you see their fucking _wings _burned onto the ground, and there's nothing there—his vessel stopped breathing, but he's still in there somewhere—you have to help him—_help him!_"

Everyone seems to unfreeze all at once. Molly and the Doctor dash to Cas's side, and she immediately kneels, reaching out to feel for a pulse. Amy pushes herself backwards across the floor, staring uncomprehendingly at the limp body before her, and Rose quickly loops an arm around her shoulder, holding her tight.

"He's alive," Molly confirms.

Dean slackens all at once, as if every muscle in his body just gives him. At first, I'm alarmed, but then I see that he's speaking, whispering hasty, dry words under his breath. "You son of a bitch, don't you _ever _do that to me again…"

"…But he won't last much longer," she finishes, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "I don't—"

"_Fix him,_" Dean demands, dragging the words out. "Don't be useless, do something, make him better…"

"I—"

_"You have to." _

She looks on the verge of tears, but none of the rest of us have anything to do. It's true—Molly, with her apparent medical experience, is the only one who can heal Castiel. Several long seconds pass, before Dean finally breaks again.

"He's going to _die!_" he bellows.

Molly closes her eyes for a full second, then nods and opens them. "I'm going to need… I have to stitch him up," she says carefully, "and even though his heart is working, a bit of a shock can't hurt…"

"Surgical needles and thread, defibrillator," the Doctor agrees, nodding to himself, "You've got it. I'll be right back, keep him breathing until then." His footsteps fade into the distance as he dashes down a corridor of the TARDIS, and then, with no one daring to speak, there's only the sound of harsh, stressed breathing to fill the small space.

_Is he going to make it? _I want to ask Molly, or Sam, but there's nothing I can do without aggravating Dean. For an angel, Castiel seems awfully vulnerable at the moment—a particularly hard shake could probably destroy him, burn his wings on the ground like Dean described. His life is being held in place, but so _fragilely—_it's almost too much for me, the tension, knowing that the spirit of our whole crew rests on the fate of this one angel, and that that fate is teetering on the head of a pin.

Instants later, the Doctor dashes back in, and immediately drops a massive silver box beside Molly. It's so huge that I have to wonder how he carried it, and the whole floor seems to shake as it lands with a thump. She murmurs a quick thanks and flips it open, her hands flickering over the assortment of tools arranged inside. Some of them are familiar—stethoscope, hand lens, bandages—but a few other odd metal contraptions lead me to the conclusion that at least part of the technology inside is definitely alien.

Her voice shakes as she speaks, sounding more like she's thinking aloud than anything else. "I—I should bring him back first, right? Before… before I try to do anything else…"

"You do know what you're… you have a good idea of what you're doing, right?" Sam asks carefully.

"I've never worked with an angel before," she points out half-defensively, "or, well… anyone… anyone alive, really."

_"What?" _Dean barks.

"She's a mortician," the Doctor explains a bit uncomfortably. A look of apology forms on Molly's features, and Dean snorts in disbelief, shaking his head.

"You're a freaking _coroner? _That's it—I'll do it, I'm not…"

"No," Sam growls. "You're not strong enough."

"I can do it," Molly insists. "Really, I can. I just… I just have to focus. It can't be that different, right?"

"What, operating on a _living person _instead of a corpse? No, not that _fucking different at all!_"

Molly cringes, and something twists in my stomach. Fuck this, I'm going to help her.

"Just ignore him," I say, stepping over and kneeling next to Molly. She looks up at me in surprise—her brown eyes are wide with fear, and I'm suddenly struck by her resemblance to a doe. Delicate, large-eyed, beautiful but terrified. "You can do this, we all know you can. Dean's just nervous, but it's okay. Castiel's an angel. You won't be able to kill him very easily, right?" I half-smile, trying to soften the lie. We both know that a single wrong move could kill him at this point, but there's no reason not to deny it.

"R-right… thank you…" Taking a deep breath, she moves her hands to the top of the big first-aid kid. A strange sort of metal stick, almost like a bicycle's handlebars, is strapped to the lid. "Doctor—what's this?"

"Exactly what you're looking for. I know it's nothing like you're used to, but, well… it definitely works better than most human technology." He sounds almost apologetic. "Just put it right over his chest, press that little switch there, and it'll give him a good enough shock to start the breathing up again. He's not going to last much longer without oxygen, even if his blood is flowing."

She nods and takes a deep breath, then swiftly unclips the mechanism and takes it out of the box, positioning it over Cas. The metal seems light in her hands, and I can't help but feel a bit skeptical that the flimsy-looking thing could really carry enough electricity to push his heart back up to a normal rate and fix his body systems. But as I watch, Molly faux-calmly presses the two ends—the ones that I compared to bike handles—to his torn and bloody chest, and her thumb moves over a gleaming red switch along the main bar. She closes her eyes one more time, and I can see her lips move as she whispers a count of three. Then she pushes down the switch, and I can't help but gasp—a pale blue current literally passes through the bar, seeping through Castiel's ruined coat and sinking into him. There's a long, horribly tense moment as the brief pulse of energy disappears again, and then his lips part in a huge gasp and his back arches off the ground.

"_Yes,_" Molly breathes, just as Dean lets out a sharp, desperate exclamation—_"Cas?" _

But, just as immediately, the angel is sinking back to limpness. He doesn't stir, but I can see his chest rising and falling again—he's alright. Fragile, but stable. I sit back with a heavy sigh, and realize for the first time that my palms are sweating and my heart racing.

"You did it," I laugh, staring in wonder and admiration at Molly. "You saved him."

"It's not over yet," she replies almost grimly, but I can see a smile curling the edges of her mouth.

"Gwen's right, though, Miss Molly." The Doctor reaches down to squeeze her shoulder from behind. "You are absolutely wonderful."

Her hair hangs over her face as she rummages through the kit, looking for needles and thread, and I guess that I'm the only one who sees the slight flush on her nose and cheeks. She takes perhaps just a bit too long to locate the tools, but by the time she pulls them out, her skin is clear again.

"There should be a little bottle in there, too—sort of violet-colored, if I'm not wrong," the Doctor adds. "Marvelous for healing up stabs and cuts."

I half-expect Amy to make some grouchy comment about him never being so useful on their adventures—she seems to do such a thing rather frequently—but she remains silent. Glancing over, I see that she's still looking pale and shocked as she stares at Cas. Rose's arms are tight around her shoulders, but that doesn't alter her frozen expression. A prick of anxiety threatens the heavy veil of relief around me. It really was an awful idea to bring her along when she's so far pregnant—what if she becomes overwhelmed? What if she goes into some sort of shock, and it affects the baby?

"Right, got it," Molly murmurs, bringing my attention back to her. As I watch, she carefully douses each of Cas's numerous (and often alarmingly wide) cuts and gashes with a few drops from a small, purple glass bottle held delicately between her fingers. Maybe it's just my imagination, but I swear I can see the blood shrinking away slightly on each of the wounds, almost like it's being sucked back into them. After what seems like an eternity, Molly sits back, pushing a sweaty strand of hair out of her face, and takes a deep breath. "Stitching," she says, and I have to admit that I'm amazed by the lack of weariness in her voice. "Okay, I—"

"No… look," the Doctor breathes, a smile tilting his features. Molly gapes, and I'm sure I do, too—as we watch, the injuries do indeed close themselves up, one at a time, until Cas seems entirely unharmed, save his unconscious state and a few scarlet stains that haven't faded from his ripped coat.

"That's quite some medicine," I half-laugh.

I hear shaking movement behind me, and glance over my shoulder to see that Sam has finally let Dean go. He makes it about three steps before falling to his knees, his eyes wide and his face ashen. Molly and I hastily scoot aside, and Dean brings himself right up to Cas, reaching out and touching his shoulder—not hugging, not cradling, just touching. His breath comes out all at once, and he squeezes his eyes shut for one long moment. His fingers curl tightly around the material of the angel's trench coat, until his knuckles shine white and the veins in the back of his hand strain. I look away before I can see if he's crying—I don't need to interfere with this. It's too personal. Instinctively, my gaze finds Sam, but there's also a sizable amount of emotion shimmering in his eyes as he looks on at his brother and his friend. I swallow, shift my gaze to the floor.

I barely have to wait at all, though, because soon enough, Dean takes another breath. He doesn't rise to his feet, though—in fact, his hand remains wound in the fabric of Castiel's coat. His eyes lift, and he glances around at all of us. His green stare is hard, as though daring any one of us to challenge his display of emotion. Nobody says a word, except for Sam, and it's far from a cruel remark.

"What could _do _this to him?" he asks softly. "What sort of…"

"It was an angel blade," Dean growls. "One of those knives… Lucifer had one, somehow."

"An _angel blade?_" Sam repeats, sounding amazed. I'm not sure what the big deal is, but I can tell that this 'angel blade' is no small matter. "But… those are…" Then a shadow passes over his eyes. He shakes his head slightly, as if to dislodge a bothersome thought, but nothing can disguise the horror slowly making its way into his expression.

"What's wrong?" I dare to ask.

"It… nothing. He just… he just killed some random angel to get it, then, right? It doesn't mean anything…"

Dean scowls. "What do you mean, it doesn't _mean anything? _Of course it does, if an angel…"

"That's not what I mean!" Sam half-shouts back. I flinch at his outburst, and I'm not the only one to do so—looking around, the Doctor, Molly, Amy, and Rose all seem quite shocked. Sherlock, however, has his eyes narrowed as though he knows exactly what's going on, and Dean simply appears confused and a bit angry.

"Then what _do _you mean?"

"Just that—it could've been… someone important…"

"What the fuck are you _talking _about, Sammy?"

I can feel my stomach tensing. Something is about to be revealed—something that I'm not entirely sure I want to know. Sam's breathing begins to accelerate, growing more nervous, and an expression of defensiveness and fear flickers over his features. When he finally speaks, it's clear that he's forcing the words out, dragging them through his teeth with painstaking precision. "There's one angel… who… well, he…"

"Spit it out," Dean demands.

"One who I know!" he snaps. "Better than you think I do."

"What the hell…" Dean shakes his head, and it suddenly strikes me how exhausted he looks. Not angry so much as just _tired. _He doesn't want to deal with Sam's cryptic mutterings right now—he just wants everything out in the open. Even though I've associated and connected more with the younger Winchester brother so far, I can understand Dean right now, how his temper is directly linked to his stress level. "Look, either say the truth or don't say shit at all. I don't want to deal with this right now, alright? Who gives a damn where the knife came from? What matters is that it hurt Cas, but he's alright now, and that's honestly all I want to focus on."

"Fine, then, I won't say anything," Sam retorts. Before any of us can say a word, he turns and stalks off, down a seemingly random corridor of the TARDIS. I don't realize that I'm rising until I find myself on my feet, and then I feel a tinge of humiliation and start to sit again.

"No," Rose says, "go ahead. See what's up with him."

"Why me?"

All of them, even Sherlock, look at me like I'm an utter idiot. Rather than choosing to interpret this, I shrug and start off in the same direction that Sam did, feeling all of their stares on my back. The last thing I hear is a snort from Sherlock, but then I turn into the shadowy hallway, and the noise seems to fade away instantly, to make way for an almost ringing emptiness.

It's dark in here—alarmingly dark. I glance through each shadowed room as I pass it, but it takes several before I find one with Sam's tall figure inside. I hesitate in the entryway. His shoulders are slumped, his head hanging, and I can't help but wonder whether I'm intruding on a private moments.

_No, fuck that. _Something's wrong with him, and I figure that I care enough to at least try to find out what it is. I walk in carefully, making sure that my footsteps are clear enough that I don't shock him. He doesn't react, not even when I step up to his side and consider his face. He looks tired, too. He stares at the ground, and despite his height and musculature, he seems suddenly small, young. And he _is _young, I realize. Not even in his thirties. Far too young to be going through everything that he is.

"Are you okay?" I question softly.

"No."

He doesn't elaborate, and I hesitate. How am I supposed to react to that? After several seconds of deliberation, I finally try again. "…What's wrong, then? You can tell me, it's fine—they didn't just send me to gather gossip, I'll keep it to myself—"

"I'm not worried about you _gathering gossip, _Gwen." My words sound awfully stupid when he repeats them, but my name is the opposite. It gives me a light chill, which I try not to let show. Instead, I cross my arms and watch him, trying to balance my gaze between casual and intense. It takes him a few moments to speak, like he's choosing his words carefully. "I—okay. Dean—I think we both know it's pretty freaking obvious that Dean is in love with Cas."

My eyes widen. I suppose I had been thinking something similar, deep down, but to hear him put it into such simple words like that is a bit shocking. "Well… yeah," I agree, "I suppose so."

"If you're around them more… trust me. It gets pretty ridiculous." He smiles for half a second, but it fades away fast. Too fast. "My point is that… it's not… too far-fetched for a human to be in a relationship with an angel, is it?"

I'm only growing more and more confused, but I'm careful not to say so. It seems like he's telling me what's up—or at least working his way there—and I certainly don't want to detract his attempts. "Not far-fetched, no. Sooner or later we're going to see it between them, right?"

"Yeah." The smile stays a bit longer this time, but still melts away as he continues. "The point is…" Then, suddenly, he's turning, staring almost desperately at me. My breath is entirely taken away by his proximity, and by the light in his eyes. He looks younger than ever, exposed, vulnerable, and his sentence rushes out, like the words are racing to see which can tumble from his lips first. "If I told you that I have—that I've been seeing an archangel—for, well, a while now—would you… uh…" His face twists into an expression that I don't even know what to call. "Judge me?"

"An _archangel?_"

"Yeah. Um—Gabriel… yeah."

I—

I don't know how to react.

What I do immediately is take a step back and try to reevaluate him entirely. Sam Winchester, Sammy Winchester the unconnected and notably attractive younger brother. Apparently _dating _the _angel Gabriel. _

"I…" I realize that I'm shaking my head slowly, and hasten to stop. It's clear from his expression that he already regrets saying a word, and I don't want that—I'm glad that I know this, even if it sends a rather… sour sensation spreading through my stomach. Jealousy, I realize. There's no way in Hell (or Heaven, really, or apparently on Earth) that I'm going to be able to compete with Gabriel. _Gabriel. _It's kind of ridiculous, really. "I wouldn't… _judge _you, no, but that's… I mean… he's rather famous, I wouldn't have expected—no offense, but…"

"Trust me, he's nothing like his reputation."

"How do you mean?"

"Casa Erotica and lollipops."

"…Oh." I consider a number of replies. "That's… charming."

"You kind of have to meet him." He shakes his head, then continues in an ominously solemn tone. "The thing is… okay, so he used to drop by every once in a while, when Dean was out or sleeping. Not for long, only a couple of hours at the most, but practically every other day. Sometimes it'd be a little more, but never more than half a week or so."

I nod carefully. "It's… been longer, hasn't it?" I don't even know what my own feelings are doing now. I half-wish that Gabriel has lost interest in Sam, for my own purposes, but I also don't want him to be hurt. And then, of course, there's the fact that this isn't just some random man, but Gabriel, _the _Gabriel, and that probably means that I should be concerned for his well-being, if it affects most all of humanity, most likely…

"Two weeks." Sam's words drop like stones into the air. "I kept dismissing it—I mean, it _is _the Apocalypse, he could've been busy with something else, right?"

"Of course. That's probably what it is," I say without thinking, blindly attempting to reassure him.

"Yeah, but… that angel blade. Those things aren't common, and just… Lucifer could have gotten it from a number of places, I know he could, but I… I _know _it was him, Gwen, God, it was him…"

"You think—wait. You think Lucifer killed Gabriel?" I ask nervously.

"I don't just think, I… I'm sure of it." It hits me suddenly that he's crying. It barely shows in his voice, and it's hard to see in the dark lighting, but now that I focus, I can see that there are tear tracks all down his cheeks. "I came into here to try and call him. Pray, y'know—they always hear it when you pray directly to them. He promised me—he said to me that he'd always come when I called, and he's not coming. Gwen, _he's not coming._"

I can't help it—I try to make excuses, like that's my job. "It could be anything," I soothe. "He could be busy, or… anything." A lame finish, but I really don't know what to say. As much as I don't want to believe it—_or do I?_—Sam's train of thought admittedly does follow logic. Pretty much every possible clue indicates that his archangel boyfriend is dead, and it's pathetic to deny that.

"I can't—I don't want to lose him. I thought… I mean… that's one of the reasons that I let myself be with him in the first place, I think." I can tell that he's embarrassed to talk about his romances to me like this, but he also seems numb. Beyond humiliation. "I've lost people before. The worst one was… right before Dean and I started to hunt together. Her name was Jessica. Jess." His voice cracks. "A demon killed her, Azazel, and… then there was Madison… she was a werewolf, I—I had to kill her. So that she wouldn't become a monster."

Horror floods me. He had to kill a girl that he was in love with? That's… that's beyond awful. I try to imagine a similar thing—having to kill Rhys, having to kill Jack—but both images ring somehow dull, tinny. Then I look closer at Sam, standing before me. Shaking with fear and loss, his eyes gleaming, his lips parted, his eyebrows pushed together in an expression that radiates fear and concern.

To imagine killing Sam…

He's still talking, I realize, and I bring myself back to the surface, leaving the repulsive thought behind, trying to focus on his words. "But Gabriel, I mean… I guess Dean and I have learned that nothing's immortal, really. But I always thought…"

A choked sob falls from his lips, and I look away. I can't watch him fall apart like this. It's too much. Three loved ones are too many to lose. Hell, _one _is too many.

"But—that's still not all. There's more." Now his words are monotonous, half-spit out. I glance up as he reaches a shaking hand into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a DVD case—small, clear plastic, with an unlabeled disc inside.

"What's that?" I question, unable to suspend my curiosity.

"Last time he was with me, he gave me this. Just told me to hold onto it—nothing other than that. He said he was going to—to try and sort out… family issues. You realize who Gabriel's family is?"

I do. "Have you watched it?"

"I'm… I'm afraid to."

Then his hand falls, and he just cries.

I stand by his side and wait for it to pass.


	14. Chapter 14: Molly Hooper

**Thanks to** _azebra117_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Molly Hooper

Oh, I wish it was over  
And I wish you were here  
Still I'm hoping that somehow  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

_"Gabriel?" _Dean spits, rising from Cas's side for the first time. The angel—who woke up a while ago, and is now in a state of exhausted, slightly woozy consciousness—watches him with wide, dark eyes. Everyone else—the Doctor, Sherlock, Rose, Amy, and I—watch from our various positions around the console room, while Gwen stands almost defensively by Sam's side. "You—why _Gabriel? _He's only about the douchiest angel we've ever _met…_"

"If you'd ever given him a chance, you probably would've learned better, but it's a bit late for that now, isn't it?" Sam's eyes are bright, filled with unmistakable tears, but he doesn't seem embarrassed about them at all. On the contrary, he almost shows off how damaged he is, advertises his misery to Dean, who doesn't seem to be comprehending just how utterly broken his brother is.

Castiel's voice is shaky as he speaks. "Are you sure that he's dead?" It strikes me then—of course, this is his _brother _that's being discussed. All angels are siblings, right? So he must be just as devastated as Sam.

"That's what _this _thing probably says." Swallowing, Sam holds out the disc clutched in his hand—it's unlabeled, and confusion sinks over me.

"What… what is it?" I ask nervously.

"A suicide note, most likely," Sherlock comments carelessly. Despite his unemotional tone, though, there's a light of definite interest in his pale eyes. "He gave it to you just before he left for the last time, didn't he?"

"…Yeah." Sam swallows and nods. "I… I'm afraid to see what it says."

Dean takes a step towards him and reaches a hand out, as if expecting Sam to give him the disc. "Well, better toughen up—this could be important, you know."

Sam's jaw tightens, and I want to hide my face, to just block out all of this. I've gone back and forth between tense and relieved too many times in the past hour, and all I really want now is to be able to sleep—or _eat, _at least; it strikes me that I haven't had any food all day (though the Doctor did come around to my bunk at one point last night, a couple of sandwiches in hand, proclaiming with a wide grin that we needed to 'catch up'—staying up to talk to him, I notice now, is probably one of the reasons that I'm so exhausted).

"_Toughen up?_" Sam repeats, sounding as though he can't quite believe the words coming out of his brother's mouth. "Dean, I—I _cared _about him! It's not going to be that easy!"

"Oh, right, you _cared _about him. I'm sure you did, but this is a little more important than your _secret angel boyfriend, _alright? This is the Apocalypse, Sammy. And if you're going to stop us from looking at our only clue to possibly stopping it—"

"It could be personal! What if he didn't mean for all of you to see it?"

"Then you go look at it, and report back to us!"

Their words are getting more heated, coming in short bursts. I swallow anxiously and take a step back—right into the Doctor, incidentally. I stiffen immediately and spring away, ducking my head. Damn it. I can't even look at him straight now, not after—after what I did… just thinking about it causes my stomach to turn in a hundred different directions. I don't know why I was stupid enough to kiss him, but, even worse than that, I don't know if I regret it. Yes, of course keeping things to myself would have saved me a good deal of humiliation and self-consciousness, but at the same time… the way that he responded…

Sam's shout cuts clean through my thoughts. "What if it was Cas?!"

Silence fills the room immediately. Dean's eyes flash, but despite his infuriated expression, he doesn't seem to have any retort. After several long seconds, Sam turns away from his brother, shoulders heaving. "I'm going to go watch it," he says in a painstakingly even way, "and then I'll come back, and I'll tell you whatever you need to know."

"Wait," Sherlock cuts in. He has an odd look to his features—almost apologetic, somehow. "If it does contain important information, isn't there a chance that it'll destroy itself after a single viewing? Surely angels have enough power to ensure such."

"…Maybe, I guess, yeah," Sam agrees. "So?"

"_So, _there might be something vital that you don't retain. Perhaps we should all see whatever's on that disc, just to be entirely sure that nothing is missed."

"Oh—come on, no," he half-pleads. "We can't—" After taking a deep breath, he tries again, this time sounding much more even and reasonable. "I won't miss anything. I _won't_."

But there's no denying that Sherlock has made a very good point, and even Sam realizes it—which is visible in how he slowly deflates, the light entirely going out of his eyes. "Fine," he mumbles, "but if it is just for me—"

"We're going to have to watch it all the way through," Sherlock interrupts stonily, "no matter what. There could be encrypted information at any point."

"Fine!" Sam snaps. "How do we play it, then?"

"I believe I've got a 21st century DVD player around here somewhere…" The Doctor, speaking up for the first time, busies himself with moving around a good deal more than necessary, examining the console far too closely to be casual. He's feeling awkward, I realize. He doesn't want to be in between the two Winchester brothers, with their arguing and their confused romances. That's not his job. He's meant to be the _Doctor, _with just one companion, traveling throughout space and time in a way that, though occasionally disrupted by tragedy, is ultimately lighthearted. He doesn't want to be wrapped up in drama and darkness, yet here he is.

"There's a TV room, Doctor," Amy sighs after he's spent a good thirty seconds examining all the different switches and levers on the console, as though expecting one of them to grow a disc drive. "Down the hallway."

"Oh—yes, and so there is!" he agrees. "My mistake, it can be easy to forget where everything is on this old girl after you've been through a couple of her transformations… excellent, then, down here." He waves his arm in a wide gesture indicative of the same hallway that leads towards the bunk room I've been using. We all follow him, Dean holding on tight to Cas's arm, Gwen lingering near Sam. Sure enough, there's almost immediately a doorway on the right, one that I've never seen open before, that the Doctor opens to reveal a slightly futuristic-shaped flat-screen television and a wide couch. It looks, more or less, like the perfect setup for a grade school girls' slumber party. My eyebrows lift. The TARDIS certainly seems full of surprises.

Sam groans quietly nearby me. "That's… big," I hear him mutter under his breath. My heart twinges with sympathy. If someone I cared about—if, for example, Sherlock had left me some sort of message after his initial disappearance, I absolutely wouldn't have wanted to watch it on a squishy couch with several near-strangers. More like alone, at home, knowing that I'd be able to cry if needed.

Despite his clear upset, though, the younger Winchester wastes no time in heading over and slipping the disc into a lightly glowing slot in the side of the television set. Without delay, the screen immediately lights up, and he takes a couple of steps back, sinking into the couch. Gwen tentatively joins him, as well as Dean and Cas. The rest of us stay standing. My eyes are glued to the screen as images and noise begin to play out—I expect to see something quiet and sorrowful, or perhaps even darkly dramatic. What one would imagine in… well… a suicide note.

What I get is a porn video.

At least, I'm fairly sure that's what it is—a young, skimpily clad blonde woman lies sprawled on her stomach on a bed, flipping through a magazine as a voiceover monologues some expository nonsense. I'm stunned. Is this what we were meant to be seeing… at all? Did Sam—is he entirely sure that this was given to him by Gabriel the archangel? I glance over at him, only to see that he looks just as mute as me, entirely shocked. I swallow and glance up at the screen just as a second person enters the shot—banging open the door rather shamelessly. He's small, with slicked-back hair and a definite fake mustache—I'm growing more and more bewildered by the second.

Then I hear the stiff inhalation from Sam on the couch, and my jaw drops open a tiny bit.

Is _this _Gabriel?

This small, utterly unremarkable looking man—Gabriel. The archangel. Is there some sort of mistake? There's _got _to be, I repeat to myself. I can't be sure exactly what I was envisioning, but I know it was something along the lines of what's typically seen in biblical depictions of the famous angel—a flawlessly shaped face, golden hair, a tall and muscular body…

Instead, there's this.

I'm so utterly confused that I barely register as he prances over to the girl and the two of them begin intensely kissing, both of their hands wandering shamelessly. I'm sure that I'm full-on blushing by now. In fact, I'm just about to look away from the TV completely when he pulls back and turns to stare directly at the camera. "Sam," he greets, his mouth quirking up in the corner, and Sam completely stops breathing, unblinking. "You're probably wondering what the hell's going on, and most likely feeling a bit jealous, too. Now, don't pretend, I know that look," he goes on, as if he can actually see Sam watching him.

"Well." Gabriel rips off the mustache and tosses it carelessly aside, his golden hazel eyes still not shifting from the camera. "If you're watching this… sorry, kid, but I'm dead."

This time, I don't even dare to look down at Sam. His breath comes back in a heavy rush, and I press my lips together tightly, feeling the secondhand horror like a tidal wave. _I'm sorry, _I want to tell him, because I am. I'm sorry that he had to lose this man, this _angel _that I don't even know the first thing about, sorry that he has to have such a fact confirmed when he's far from alone.

"Now, listen up. Knowing you as well as I do, Sammy, you're probably going to start getting teary right about now. Well, don't. I'm going to give you the facts here, so make sure you're paying attention."

Sherlock, standing next to me, straightens up a bit. Of course, that would be him—entirely unimpressed by the porn, fascinated by the information.

"The reason that I kicked the bucket is Lucifer. Seems like I went out to finally work things out with him, and he wasn't in the mood for a friendly chat. That guy always did have a bit of a temper. Here's the thing: if I couldn't kill him, then you can't, either. Not a chance. Zero, zip, nada. Don't try, because you'll just end up dead, and I'm not here to bring you back." He leans in closer, his expression growing more serious. "What you have to do is _trap him. _That Cage you sprung Lucifer from? It's still down there. And _maybe, _just maybe, you'll be able to shove his ass back in. Not that it'll be easy—you've got to get the Cage open, trick my bro back into it, and, oh yeah, avoid Michael and the God Squad. But hey—details, right? Here's the big secret, though."

The camera begins to zoom in slowly, and the angel's voice lowers. "Lucifer himself doesn't even know. But the key to the Cage? _It's out there. _Actually, keys—plural. Four keys. Well, four rings—from the Horsemen. You get them all, you've got the Cage." A deep breath. His voice grows even quieter, so that it's barely audible, even over the loudly turned up speakers. "Hang in there, Sammy. You're capable of doing this one more thing, I know you are. And take care of your brother, too—he may be an idiot, but I've seen you without him, and it's not pretty." He laughs softly, and the last of the humor drops from his words and his expression. "Really, though… don't be upset. I tried, kiddo, I really did. I didn't want to die." He goes silent for a moment, his gaze drifting off into the distance, then shrugs. "Suppose I'll cut this video a bit short for jealousy's sake, right?" He winks and smiles again, but it seems rather unenthusiastic. "Love you, sugar."

The screen goes dark.

For what feels like an incredibly long time, none of us have anything to say. I'm still trying to process the angel himself, how little like his myth he really is—or, well, was. I guess he's gone now… the thought brings me back to Sam, who I still don't dare to look at. I don't want to see his reaction to this, I really don't. Yet I can't quite hold back, and I finally spare a glance, only to see that his hands are over his face, elbows braced on his knees and fingers wound through his hair. His shoulders are shaking, and even Gwen doesn't dare to try and offer comfort. Dean's expression is notably less judgmental than before—he almost looks sorry for his brother.

Speaking of brothers… I can see that Cas, while not as visibly distraught as Sam, seems more than a little shocked. His azure eyes stare blankly at nothing, and his face is expressionless. Disbelieving. Surprisingly, he's the first one to speak, his voice rasping in the silence.

"He's my brother," he says, sounding stunned. "I—I never imagined that he would die. It's not as if we were ever particularly close, but… he was my brother."

Dean wraps a comforting arm around his shoulder, but he doesn't react. Sam still doesn't look up, and there's another stretch of silence before Sherlock speaks up.

"He told us what we need, though. The Horsemen—presumably the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?"

"That'd be them," Dean confirms.

"Of the Apocalypse?" Amy breathes. "War—what are they? War, Death… Famine?"

"War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death," Dean ticks off. "We've heard mention of them, but never actually got to meet the suckers."

"I imagine you'd want it to stay that way," Sherlock murmurs almost amusedly, "they certainly can't be a very pleasant bunch…"

I find myself glaring at his insensitivity. Even as used to him as I am, it still strikes me every once in a while how utterly detached he is—and, more so than that, how he barely seems aware of such a thing himself. It's like he genuinely has no idea what a _prick _he can be, or otherwise just doesn't care.

"Well, it's quite a task, isn't it?" the Doctor speaks up. I glance over at him, fighting the familiar blush that tickles my cheeks, to see that his eyes are darker than what I'm used to. He looks exhausted, almost defeated already. "Finding the Horsemen… is there even any way to do it?"

I'm unnerved. This isn't the Doctor I'm used to—hopelessness isn't a trait that I've ever associated with him. Amy and Rose, the long-term companions, also look a bit concerned—in any case, Rose is biting at her lower lip slightly, and Amy's eyebrows are drawn together. They don't look surprised, just worried. Worried about the Doctor, apparently—about the mood that's suddenly taken hold of him.

"It should be simple enough," Castiel comments. "Of course, their location can be easily revealed by an unusual presence of their symbolic form of destruction. Famine will be around starvation, War near conflict, Pestilence disease…"

"And Death… death," Gwen finishes softly.

"He said something about rings," Dean adds, "so does he mean literal rings? Like, bands of metal on their fingers that we have to rip off?"

"It depends on whether they take on the form of humans," Cas explains. "They are able to materialize without vessels, but they will most likely disguise themselves as people. In that case, the ring should be a physical object. Otherwise… things will be much more difficult."

"Then let's hope they _won't _be more difficult, right?" Dean seems to be the only one in the room who has any animation in his voice whatsoever—yet even he sounds cracked, devastated. Somehow, Gabriel's video really managed to rip us apart. Even though most of us didn't know him, there's no denying that there was a vibe of loss to his digital suicide note. We're in the middle of a war, and I'm only realizing this just now. This isn't about fun—it all seemed secondhand somehow, before. But Sam's lost someone. Gabriel is _dead. _And more of us could be, by the end of it. My stomach tightens. What if Sam himself dies? Or Dean, Cas? What if the _Doctor _dies?

What if I die?

I swallow against the sudden fear that's rising up in my chest. No, I can't think about that. I can't. I'm not going to die—I won't let myself. I have to be strong. I refuse to be baggage, a burden to the rest of the group—no, I have to be useful. I have to work for the winning side.

"Hope, yes." It's Amy who speaks up this time, and her voice is strong—stronger than Dean's, or any other I've heard so far. "We have to hope. Everyone—it's the only way we're going to pull through this. We all have each other, right?"

It's an almost magical moment. The lights are still down, but I can see her hazel eyes, gleaming with determination. A faint silver glow from the idle television fills the room, so that everyone's features are illuminated rather oddly, but I can still see the expressions on them strengthening. She's right. We're a team, here, _we're a team, _and we need to remember that. All of us came together for a reason, and that reason is to defeat Lucifer. If anyone's capable of it, we are.

"We should split up." Gwen is the one who takes charge from there. She stands up from the couch and turns with her back to the TV, facing us all. "There are enough of us for four groups of two or three—each of us gets a Horseman, how about that? The TARDIS can drop us off wherever we think it is, and then we can do our best to get the ring."

"It will not be easy," Castiel warns. "It's safer to go in a large group, but…"

"But we're running out of time," Gwen finishes firmly. "This is what we have to do. The only question is who gets which."

Nobody speaks at first. My head is pounding—which of them am I going to end up with? War… Famine… Pestilence… all sound equally horrid, but surely Death is the worst. The worst and the greatest. I don't even want to consider what a quest to find Death might involve.

"We'll take War." Dean's voice drops into the silence, icy and resolute. "Cas and I."

"War?" Gwen repeats. In the faint light, I think she raises her eyebrows. "Is there a… particular reason, or…?"

"He's the one I have the most experience with," the American hunter replies bluntly. "Might as well meet the guy in person… you could say I'm a big fan." Despite his joking word choice, there's no humor to his voice. Cas's eyes shine wide and blue in the dark—he doesn't object to the decision that Dean has made for him, but rather continues to sit quietly while the rest of us lapse into wordlessness once more.

"What now, then?" Sherlock questions. He sounds a bit annoyed with the conversation being carried out. "We figure out who the hungriest one is? This isn't about choosing team mascots." Each word is careful and precise, fully exasperated. "If no one else is going to deal them out—"

"Pestilence," Rose speaks up suddenly. She sounds odd, unusually thoughtful. "I want Pestilence. Amy… you'll come with me?"

"Of course," Amy agrees immediately, then slants a slightly worried glance in her partner's direction. "Though it'd better not be because you're sick."

Rose emits a small huff of air, almost a laugh. "I don't have any sort of disease, that's for sure."

I can tell there's a layered meaning to their conversation, and I frown slightly. What's going on between these two women? Really, their relationship is awfully intriguing overall. One moment they seem like the most stable partnership in the world, the next they aren't so much as looking at each other without bursting into tears and shouting. There's a whole backstory between the two of them, I imagine, one that I've barely touched the surface of. Then again, most of the links between those around me are like that at the moment… always have been, really. Amy and Rose, Dean and Castiel, Sam and Gabriel, Sam and _Gwen… _even Sherlock and John always had something between them that I knew I'd never quite understand.

And then, of course, there was Sherlock and Jim. Jim, Jim _Moriarty—_there was another entire side of him that I never came near seeing, that he hid from me… was there any reality to Jim from IT, any at all? I don't know what to think. I don't _want _to think about him, about how he's dead, about how he always was, in a way…

So many of them are dead…

As if reading my mind, Sherlock starts up again. "I suppose that I will be the best match for Death," he says delicately. "Considering that I've been there before. Perhaps he'll be happy to see me," he adds sarcastically.

"Might as well join the club, then," the Doctor puts it. "You know, having died, what, ten times now…? Not that I want to officially meet the man himself, but I suppose it's best to encounter him sooner or later." He swallows and tilts his head down, speaking the next words so swiftly and softly that I'm sure I'm the only one who can hear them. "I don't exactly have much time left…"

My heart twists. What's that supposed to mean, he doesn't have much time left? I don't want to lose him—I can't lose him, not possibly, not after all this. And maybe it's that instinct that sends me launching into what I'm immediately sure is a huge mistake. "I will, too," I say. My voice is shaking, but I barely notice—I stare down at my hands, squeezing the top of the wide couch that the hunters and the angel still sit on. "I—I'll go looking for Death."

"You don't need to." It's Sherlock who contradicts me, to my surprise. I didn't really imagine that they'd let me go with them without arguing, but I expected the Doctor to say something against me, not the consulting detective. I allow myself to look up and find that his green-grey eyes, intense even in the shadowy darkness, are staring straight at me. There's an odd sort of depth to them—I could almost call it caring, if I saw it on someone else. As is, I don't know what sort of name to put to the strange little emotion visible in his pale, carved face. "The Doctor and I can do it."

"I want to," I explain simply. I don't know if it's true. I have no idea if I want to go with them. The truth is that I don't want to be here at all, wound up in the middle of all this—

Right?

I hesitate. All this time, I've been repeating to myself over and over what a mess I've worked myself into, how this isn't how I ever expected my half-dreamed adventures with the Doctor, and yet… the excitement brewing inside of me rears up suddenly, reminding me of its constant presence. This is an _adventure, _one that I never could have imagined the likes of. All of this, the angels and the Horsemen, the magic and the aliens… this is… amazing.

"I want to." I say it again, stronger this time, utterly confident. I gaze straight back at Sherlock, for once not afraid to assert myself in front of him, my spine straight and my shoulders level. "I want to do this. I want to find Death."

We hold our gazes in mute suspension for a half-second, before he breaks away, scoffing. "It's your decision, not mine," is all he mutters.

"That leaves us Famine, then."

It's the first time Sam's talked since the video ended. He finally pulls his hands down from his face, and tear trails glint all along his cheeks, but he seems determined despite the anguish in his large, dark eyes.

"I suppose it does. Does that make us hungry, then?" Gwen half-teases. Her tone is rather empty, though, as she watches Sam quietly and patiently. She's worn out. She's got to be, after seeing the man she so clearly fancies entirely destroyed by the death of his own ex-boyfriend. Probably sorrow and sympathy mixed with jealousy—it can't be a pleasant combination.

"Maybe it does." His smile is just as hollow as her joke, but at least he's trying—if he's strong enough to try, that must mean something. And it does mean something—it means everything. All of us are willing to do this, and willingness is the first step to success, isn't it? My heart skips a beat as realization strikes me—we're going to do this, we're _really going to do this. _Hunt down the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Destroy Lucifer.

Me, defeating Death and killing the Devil.

"No time to waste, then!" the Doctor declares. To my relief, a bit of his former animation has returned to his voice. "All you lot get out of here—Amy, show them where the kitchen is. You all need to get fueled up, so eat whatever you can find there, but not if it's blue—_don't touch it _if it's blue, that's probably the decorative fruit from Raxacoricofallapatorius, and it _is _explosive."

"And where will you be while I give this culinary tour?" Amy asks, quirking a smirk as she starts towards the door, Rose and Gwen behind her.

"I'd just like a quick word with Miss Molly, then I'll be right behind me."

My lungs just about catapult out of my chest. That's _me. _Why would he want to talk to me? Unless—

Oh, God. It's the kiss. It's gonna be the _damn_ kiss.

There have been several times before in my life when I've wished that I could just melt away into the floor, but this has to top them all. Everyone else can't exit slowly enough, but they seem to make it out with unnecessary haste anyways, the Winchesters and Castiel last of all. Dean raises an eyebrow at me as he closes the door behind him, and I'm suddenly extremely grateful that it's dark in here, because my face must be just about on fire.

I delay talking as long as I can, but ten seconds after the others' footsteps and light conversation have faded into the distance, I know that I can't put this off any longer. I half-wish that the Doctor would talk—he _is _the one who set up these awkward circumstances, anyways—but there's nothing, and I'm finally forced to blurt out my thoughts.

"I'm sorry, I—I didn't mean to—I mean—it was stupid, I know you don't… well… that I shouldn't… I… I'm sorry." I'm practically crying, and my stomach is in a thousand knots. At this moment, I fully regret ever so much as _looking _in his direction, let alone kissing him. I'm an idiot. I'm such an idiot. I was an idiot with Jim, an idiot with Sherlock, and now I've been an idiot with the Doctor, too.

He turns to me, the fabric of his shirt and trousers rustling in the dead silence. "Whatever are you sorry for, Miss Molly?"

"For the—" Then I stop. He _knows _what I'm sorry. He's got to. "For… well… what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Nothing that you need to apologize about." In the darkness, his hand reaches out and settles around my wrist, gripping it tight. My heart pumps like I'm running a marathon. "No, it's… about me. _I'm _sorry, Molly Hooper—for leaving you, all those years ago."

"…Oh." _That's _it? He wants to… to make amends for a day back when I was a child, that's faded into sepia after so many years in the back of my mind? "You don't need to be…"

"Of course I do. I promised you stars, and I left you behind. I got distracted, and by the time I was ready to take you back, I couldn't find you… I wanted to travel with you at least as much as you wanted to travel with me. That eager little girl with the fawn eyes…" I can hear his smile. "And I want you to know, Miss Molly, how happy I am now. That you're finally here. It's brilliant, really."

I consider how to reply before deciding that there's no reason to. I don't say anything, and I don't kiss him again, either. I just stand there, feeling his fingers on my arm and letting his words wash over me, and allow myself to smile.


	15. Chapter 14: Dean Winchester

**A/N** _I tried to do something a bit different with each of the horsemen, as will be obvious. War was actually influenced by the version of him/her in Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's Good Omens, an absolutely fantastic book that I'd recommend to any Supernatural fan. _

**Thanks to** _azebra117 and mudkipz_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Dean Winchester

'Cause your soul is on fire  
A shot in the dark  
What did they aim for  
When they missed your heart?  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

Dry air hits me as soon as the TARDIS door swings open, releasing the usual soft creak. It's like a punch in the face, hot and acrid after the cool, light atmosphere inside the time machine, and accompanied by a burst of vivid white sunshine. I wince, raising a hand to my eyes and turning away slightly.

"God, it really is the Apocalypse," I mutter under my breath, squinting out into the distance. We're in the middle of a long expanse of cracked, sandy dirt, with a few stray tumbleweeds flailing along in the distance and the thick shimmer of heat in the air. I can barely see a number of dust-colored smudges in the distance, presumably the buildings of the town we were supposed to land in. It looks like the freaking Wild West, and not the romanticized version, either. I turn and glare back into the TARDIS, which is relaxingly colorful and clean compared to the wasteland outside. "Since when does Texas look like this?"

It's Cas who answers—he's right next to me, and his azure gaze hasn't shifted from the desert landscape spread out before us. "Since War was released on humanity," he growls.

"You sure this is the place?"

"Yes. The falling star, the river… the signs are unmistakable. It's here."

"And it's your job to stop it!" the Doctor agrees, almost cheerily. Then a more upset expression clasps his features, and he turns his eyes down. "No pressure. Or anything."

"Right," I sigh, glancing out into the fiery distance once more, "none at all."

Tension is palpable in the air as no one talks for what has to be half of a minute. Heat is flowing steadily into the TARDIS now, and I hear something deep inside of her groan, working to keep the air cool. "Think you could take us any closer?" I ask tiredly, stripping off my heavy leather jacket and the shirt underneath, so that I'm wearing only a white short-sleeve shirt that's already sticking to my skin with perspiration. "Or do we have to trek across the whole damned desert?"

"Doesn't look like you're going to have to be trekking anywhere," Rose points out.

I frown, but moments later see what she did—a vague, greenish-gray shape is slowly growing on the horizon, and the growl of a motor fades into audibility as it settles into the form of a military Jeep. Something vividly red streams above it like a crimson banner, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that it's hair—the long hair of a woman, who's standing up and watching us as intently as we're watching her. A second person is driving the vehicle, a tough-looking man with an unfriendly face, and I find my hand drifting towards the gun concealed in my jeans—there's no guarantee that these people will be friendly.

"Go," Cas breathes suddenly, once they're only a few hundred feet away.

"What?" I scowl. "What do you—"

He grips the front of my shirt and pulls, so that I find myself stumbling out of the TARDIS, my feet thudding onto the ground and raising small clouds of tan dust. "Go!" Cas repeats harshly, staring straight in the Doctor's eyes. The Time Lord starts, then races over to the console and begins to pump its levers as Sam closes the door, mouthing a hasty _Good luck _in my direction. Whining groans sail through the air as the machine fades away, and then Cas and I are left completely alone, just as the Jeep rumbles to a halt in front of us.

The woman lifts her folded arms from the windshield and regards us carefully. She's surprisingly young—I'd target her at late twenties, around Sam's age—and her hair really is freaking insane, falling in heavy waves around her face and all the way down to her waist. It shines in a number of shades under the blazing sun—from pale gold to burnt orange to what's practically maroon—and, I have to admit with a bit of an involuntary grin, it's hardly even her best feature. Large, dark green cat eyes top high cheekbones, and her eyebrows are delicately arched over her long, mascara-thickened lashes—her mouth is small, but in a cute way, and her lips are curved in a slight smirk.

"Care to explain what the hell that was?" Her voice is Southern-accented but somehow smooth, the pitch shaping the inflection into something that manages to sound tough rather than lame. My grin widens, and I raise my eyebrows in her direction.

"Nah, I'd rather stay mysterious, sweetheart. Adds to the appeal."

"Cute." In a flash, she's jumped off the Jeep with an almost catlike grace, and then there's a gun pressed against my forehead, her long arm extended and her slender fingers wrapped tightly around its grip. "But when I ask a question, _sweetheart,_ I expect an answer."

I swallow, the smile growing a bit nervous, and I see Cas tense out of the corner of my eye. The woman keeps her arm level, and the sun-warmed metal of the gun burns against my skin. I take a deep breath and slowly lift my hands. "Alright, alright, cool it. We came to help—really, we did. Heard that it's been a bit violent around these parts lately."

"_Violent _is an understatement," she scoffs. "If you had any real idea what's been going on in these parts of Texas, you'd realize that."

"You could always fill me in."

"Sure, not a problem. Only the chances are that you're some sort of spies." She shakes a long lock of golden red hair over her shoulder, then glances back towards the deep, where the driver is glaring out from his seat. "Larry, if you don't mind, I think these two qualify as prisoners." He grunts and reaches under the steering wheel, pulling out two pairs of handcuffs that flash painfully bright under the sun.

"Oh, come on, now," I try to protest, but he tosses them over to her and she catches them one-handedly, seemingly without effort.

"Struggle and you're dead," she tells me brightly, and tucks the gun into a holster strapped at her hip before snapping the metal rings around my wrists. They're rather loose, but I still doubt I'd be able to get out of them without ripping off a good deal of the skin on my hands. Even though it seems like we're enemies at the moment, I can't help but take the time to appreciate the smoothness of her fingers against my wrist. I catch a glint of gold on one of her fingers, though, and my stomach drops slightly—married, probably; this doesn't really seem to be the time for ornamental jewelry. Well, damn. (Though I do suppose that if jewelry isn't appropriate, hookups really aren't, either.)

Cas isn't as quiet as me as she proceeds to chain his hands together, as well. "You're going to regret this," he tells her icily, and the warning tone of his voice reminds me that we're not really in danger, at all—he can snap us out of whatever peril we end up in, nice and easy. With that in mind, I relax a bit more, and allow myself to be led into the back of the Jeep by her tight hand on my wrist.

"It's a few minutes back home," she warns us casually, inclining her head towards the distance. "Just hope that we don't run into any of the red-hands on the way."

"Red-hands?" I repeat, settling into the stiff, dust-covered cushion. It's not very roomy at the back of the vehicle, piled as it is with sealed boxes containing God knows what, and Cas and I end up pushed uncomfortably close together. He hasn't taken off his trench coat, the idiot, despite how hot it is, but he doesn't seem bothered.

She nods and hops back into the shotgun seat. "They're everywhere. Let's go, Larry." As the Jeep starts up and begins to roll along, seeming to jerk with a violent bump every other second, she reaches under her seat and pulls out a long rifle, which she then proceeds to cock and aim into the distance, swerving slightly back and forth.

"Yeah, sure, but what _are _they?" The more information we can get, I figure, the better. If we're gonna find War himself, we might as well be aware of what we're up against. "Human?"

"What else?" she snorts. "People might be comparing this to the Apocalypse, but that doesn't mean that there are demons running around all the hell over the place."

I glance over at Cas, widening my eyes. His brow is furrowed in puzzlement, and he doesn't seem to be making any more sense of her than me. "Alright, then, what's dangerous about them?" I question, watching the path of her gun carefully.

She glances over me, her face twisted into an expression of disbelief. "Are you really that clueless, pretty boy?" I shrug. "Well, they've gone insane. Started ripping each other and the rest of us apart. All of them—more than half of our population, overnight, just like _that._"

Rather than snapping to emphasize her word, she whips her head around and fires her gun. I jump and instinctively follow the path to her target, in time to see a semi-distant figure crumpling to the ground. Larry, the driver, doesn't even flinch.

"Shit," I breathe, "how'd you do that?"

"Practice." She says grimly, reaching up to push a few wayward strands of sweaty hair out of her eyes. "Way too much practice."

"That was an innocent man," Castiel growls from beside me. "He wasn't even moving in our direction."

"Innocent? Give me a break. These things are monsters. Just because they only dare to attack in hordes doesn't mean we should let them wander around on their own. Anyone worth keeping alive is kept inside the town limits—and those are guarded pretty damn carefully, too. We only came out here for water—and thanks for interrupting that, by the way, with your stupid presences."

I don't exactly have anything to say to that, so I go silent, my features sinking into a frown. So more than half of a random Texas town goes murderously insane overnight, the town barricades itself and turns into what, judging by the Jeep and the weapon, is basically a full-fledged military outpost. It sure sounds like War, but he could be anyone—not even necessarily in a human form, or any form at all. Cas mentioned earlier that they'd only 'most likely' be posing as people, which isn't necessarily a guarantee. The buildings in the distance slowly gain more definition as the minutes trundle by, the woman shooting two more 'red-hands' on the way, and the tension in my mind increases until I finally break it, speaking up again.

"Do you have a name, anyways? Or should we just say 'hey, you'?"

She glances back at me, looking vaguely annoyed. "Scarlett. You can call me Scarlett."

I can hardly keep myself from laughing as I take note once more of her vividly hued hair. "It suits you. Coincidence, or was your fuzz tomato-colored even when you were just a little shrimp?"

Her forest-green eyes stretch in a wide, impatient roll. "It's not my _real _name, you idiot. Honestly."

"Then what is your real name? 'Cause I'm Dean, if you're interested." I'm somehow walking a thin line between flirting and interrogating, but as long as I can stay balanced, I should be alright.

"I don't trust you enough to tell you." But her expression is softening, and she slips a slight grin in my direction as we finally reach the town limits. I return it, but she doesn't linger to see, instead turning around and pulling the gun back under her seat.

What confronts us is a hell of a lot of barbed wire. Fences are constructed out of the stuff, looming what must be fifteen feet in the air, and makeshift wooden sentry towers top them every few hundred yards. I can see the tip of a rifle poking out of the nearest couple. Before us, a tall gateway is fastened into the wire fence, with a couple of armed men standing at its side.

"Welcome back, Scar," one grins. He's got sandy blonde hair down to his chin and a smattering of freckles over his protruding nose, and seems to be even younger than her. "Smoke any reddies?"

"Four out, three in," she returns smoothly, and he delivers an appreciative whoop as he unlatches the gate. Larry drives the truck through, raising a massive cloud of dust, and I get my first sight of what used to be Scorpion Creek, Texas.

There's barely anyone at all on the streets. I count two dark-eyed adults, the second of which has a small child huddled against her waist. All of them are wearing shorts and loose T-shirts, stained with sweat and dirt. More faces huddle around the grimy windows of a general store and a few restaurants, and one of the said windows is completely knocked in, only a few trembling shards of grayed glass held in place.

"It's a friggin' ghost town," I breathe in disbelief.

"It didn't used to be, either," Scarlett sighs from up front. Her hands work quickly as she loops a hairband around a swiftly pulled-together ponytail, keeping the ginger waves out of her face more effectively. "Used to be plenty lively. A bit old-fashioned, sure—square dances every Sunday night at the church and all that—but now, it's… dead, really."

"Did you live here before it all started?"

"No."

She doesn't offer anything beyond that, and I'm not about to ask Larry, who really doesn't seem like the conversational type. So I try once more to lapse into a comfortable silence, but it only lasts half a second before another question comes to mind. "Where are you taking us, anyways?"

"The church. It's our center of operations since every damn legal office burned down. It was the first thing the red-hands did—I guess they wanted to isolate us or some shit, let us go insane without ruling and turn on each other. Hell, I don't know. We managed to stay together, though… but to be honest?" She turns around and completely locks gazes with me for a moment, and I don't deny that it takes my breath away a bit. Man, she's gorgeous. "I don't think it's gonna last much longer."

"Why not?" I ask reflexively, with no real intention other than to keep the conversation flow going.

"Everyone's getting tense. Sooner or later, there's gonna be a combustion, and then? Chaos. Best I can hope till then is to keep all these idiots alive, because after that, it's gonna be a slaughter."

The tone of her voice isn't exactly desolate—instead, it has an almost maniacal animation, and her emerald eyes glint dangerously. There's something strange about her—Scarlett's not just any other tired young woman trying to keep her town safe from the Apocalypse. She seems to… well, almost to be _enjoying _it, in a twisted sort of way—reveling in the aliveness of it all. Of course, I suppose I can sympathize with that.

"Here we are." She hops onto the dry ground and hurries over to my side of the Jeep, reaching forward and grabbing onto my wrists rather painfully.

"Hey," I protest at the bite of pressure, but she ignores me, jerking the handcuff chain like reins and bringing me over to where Cas sits. He doesn't fight as she takes him, but his face is dark, pensive. Probably contemplating the easiest way to get us out of here, that won't cause the whole town to turn against us. There's a hard glint to his azure eyes, one that almost chills me—in his own way, he's just as intense as Scarlett. Between the two of them, I feel like I'm being fried by a bolt of pure tension, and it's relieving when she finally turns her back on both of us, grasping our forearms and dragging us after her.

Larry's Jeep rumbles off, kicking a final massive cloud of dust in the air, and I cough, ducking my head as the sandy particles sting my eyes. Scarlett doesn't so much as stumble. By the time I look up again, we're right in front of the church—it's a small thing, and pretty old, built of wood that I'm surprised has lasted this long. Chipped white paint coats its sides. A metal ladder is propped against them, and at the top is a thin man with a rag—he's scrubbing ferociously at a spot on the worn, wood-board cross bolted to the front of the exceptionally thin steeple. He pulls away for a moment to wipe the sweat away from his brow, and I can see with a lurch of my stomach what he's working on—in the middle of the sun-bleached wood is a single, perfect, rusty red handprint that seems to be resisting his attempts to clean it off.

"Stop staring," Scarlett growls. "Don't forget that you're our prisoner—you can't just hop around slow as you please."

"Well, excuse me," I mutter under my breath, but I follow her, nudging up against Cas as I do. It's reassuring to feel the warmth and strength of his familiar form, and maybe I'm just imagining it, but I swear he relaxes a tiny bit when our shoulders touch. Like he needs the reassurance just as much as I do. That's ridiculous, though—just because I'm overly dependent on his well-being doesn't mean that it's a mutual thing.

Inside the church is just as hot and dry as ever. The pews are mostly bare, to my surprise, and a few halfhearted fans are hard at work, their blades whirring noisily and sifting about the stifling air. A man sits on a bench along the side of the single room—he's dressed much nicer than any of the rest of the town, but the dark suit and polished shoes look torturous rather than respectable when added to a layer of sweat droplets coalesced around his prematurely receding hairline. He's in the middle of unlooping his tie as Scarlett closes the door behind us, and looks almost guilty as he glances up.

"Miss…?" he asks carefully, his wide eyes shifting over each of us.

"Cogadh," she offers smoothly.

"Right, of course, Miss Cogadh. I'm sorry, those, ah… Scottish names are awfully hard to retain, you know—"

"Irish," Scarlett corrects, seeming entirely unfazed. "This is Ralph Bluegrass," she adds to me. "He took over running the down after Mayor Richardson got cut down by the red-hands. Hard day, Ralph?"

"Aren't they all?" He laughs, but it's shaky, high-pitched. "I don't think I can even remember what it's like to relax anymore. Who've you brought in, anyways? Will they be helpful?"

"That's your choice." Gripping our shoulders, Scarlett shoves us in front of her, lifting her chin. "Larry and I found these two out in the desert. Might've been a heat wave, but it looked like they were transported in some sort of _blue box—_it faded away just as we arrived."

"Heat wave… could've been a heat wave." Bluegrass sighs and sits back. "As long as they haven't tried to do anything… honestly, I can't imagine much of this town is going to survive for long, anyways. Put them to work."

I think Scarlett grins, quickly and fiercely, but then it's gone as soon as it appeared and I can't be sure. "Excellent. What about accommodations?"

"Oh, whatever place you can shove them in…" He shuffles through the pile of papers on his lap, squinting down at the wide, light handwriting scrawled across them. "Looks like the fence needs reinforcing around the east side, and we're running low on produce… any way you can work on those, dear?"

"Easily. You're gonna try and see if we have any hidden lettuce stores, Trenchcoat," she announces to Castiel. "Go back into the main area of town, ask to talk to Maria, she's the head of food supplies. And, Dean, you're going to come with me and help work on the fence. You know how to use a gun, right?"

"'Course, why?"

"Because you're gonna need it." Grimly, she reaches forward and pulls a key out of her pocket, slipping it through Cas's and my handcuffs in turn so that they fall away. I sigh with relief, and she sighs and starts out the door again without saying so much as a farewell to stand-in mayor Bluegrass. "Those red-hands are like sharks around blood—it's like they can smell whenever there's a break in our defenses, and they come right for it. Trust me, they'll be swarming."

It's not even an exaggeration. Cas hustles off and Scarlett and I make our way to the sector of the fence that Bluegrass mentioned, only to find that there's a literal horde of the red-hands trying to make their way in. It's the first glimpse I've gotten of them up close, and, damn, they're nasty. Spittle flies from their chapped lips with every inhuman shriek, frothing down to their chin and giving them the impression of being rabid. Their eyes are wide and just a bit too bright, almost feverish, and their nails and hair are unevenly grown, like they've been stranded for too long without means of keeping them short—which, I realize, they probably have.

But the most disturbing thing of all is that, underneath all that, they look _normal. _There's no discoloration, no disturbing boils or rashes or even cuts—they don't look sick, just… _insane, _like Scarlett said. Utterly and completely deranged.

And it's easy enough to work my mind into the state that it needs to be—to get it to accept that these things are _monsters, _and that I shouldn't try to view them as people. Yes, War is here, and yes, it's not natural for them to be killers—but all the more reason that they need to be exterminated, right? These poor creatures are beyond rescue, and that's what I tell myself as Scarlett wordlessly hands me a gun, as I aim it at them and begin to fire, shooting down one squirming figure at a time, reloading and pointing and firing again, and again, and again. It takes as much as four shots to bring the strongest one down, and I can't help but notice how they don't stop fighting until they're dead—almost like zombies, utterly mechanical in their movement, unhindered by wounds tearing across their frames.

We keep killing them, and for several minutes, it's all I think about. More come, from out in the desert, and I keep murdering the damn things as a huddle of sane people desperately work to patch up a rusty spot stretching about six feet along the fence. It's tiny, really, in proportion to the massive flow of red-hands trying to make their way in. So little to get into such a huge fuss about.

Finally, when we must have shot down forty or more, the flow ceases. Scarlett calmly puts an end to any twitch in the huge pile of bodies, then sighs and rests her weight back on her heels, wiping her sweaty palms along the denim of her shorts. A matching murmur of relief comes from the fence repair crew, and they resume their work at a steadier pace, replacing loops of barbed wire and tightening bolts.

"They must be in other towns, too," she rasps, breathing heavily. "There's no other explanation for how they keep on coming like that… Scorpion Creek never had this many people, not added to the hundreds we've already killed."

"Do you think that was all of them?" I ask, taking my eyes away from the horizon to watch her. She's even sexier when she's been shooting—a stray curl has once more pulled itself free of her ponytail, and it hangs over her forehead, while her teeth bite down gently on her lower lip.

"No way in hell. Just all of those who were stupid enough to come. They're like lemmings, though they do get the message _eventually—_or not, it would seem."

Her voice morphs to something much grimmer, and I glance up to see another dark wave of bodies in the distance. I take a deep breath and lift my gun again.

The rest of the day passes like that—hours after hours of shooting, breaking, shooting again. It takes a stupidly long amount of time to fix the fence, and by the time they're finally done, the sun has long since set, leaving the sky plum-colored and scattered with hundreds more stars than could be seen in any city. It's incredibly dark and immensely light all at once, the sand glinting with moonshine, and I can't deny that it's pretty damn beautiful.

"Great work, everyone," Scarlett tells both the fence workers and the other fighters who eventually came to assist us. _Great work. _I definitely don't feel like I've done any great work over the past afternoon and evening—not only have I killed what probably amounted to over a hundred human beings (the very thought makes me sick to my stomach, but I try to ignore it); I've also managed to lose Cas, and haven't gotten any closer to finding War.

Freaking fantastic.

"You're coming with me," Scarlett adds to me, turning around and strutting off down the gravel road. I follow after her, my harsh footsteps punctuating the nighttime ambience of cicadas and the soft wail of wind over the desert sand.

"Do we get any sort of food?" I ask, prompted by the insistent growling of my stomach. As alarming as it is, I could seriously see myself eating one of those stupid salads that Sam always gets—just the thought of the cool crispness is amazing. But Scarlett's harsh laugh quickly cuts off the dumb fantasy, as do her gritty words.

"No luck, pretty boy. We've only got enough rations for two meals a day, and those are early morning and mid-afternoon—we'd just finished up the second when you and your friend came."

It's the perfect time to elaborate on the subject of Cas—ask where he is, so that I can find him and make a plan, figure out what we're going to do next. Yet I find myself staying silent as Scarlett stops walking—right outside of a small house on the border of the town's small residential area.

"These are the cabins," she offers by way of explanation, stepping over and shoving the door open with her shoulder. "You're going to be staying in mine tonight."

A small glow of triumph shoots through me, and I can't help but grin to myself, the expression disguised by darkness as I follow her inside. She drops her gun on a surface, and I try to make my way over to it by hearing, since it's entirely pitch-black in here. After a few moments, my eyes adjust enough to make out a table shoved against the wall. I deposit my own weapon atop it, savoring the feel of air against my palms, and then lift my head, turning to where her shadowed, curvy figure rests in a doorframe.

"So." Her voice floats out of the darkness, low and purring. "I couldn't help but notice today—during everything—just how _gorgeous _you are."

_Jackpot. _Man, if Sammy could see me now—Scarlett's gotta be in the list of top five hottest women that I've ever slept with, and there have been a lot. I roll my shoulders back slowly and take a few steps towards her, making sure to keep them slow and even. "Oh, yeah?"

She laughs—no, _giggles, _and it's an unusual sound from her, one that heats me up a bit. "Oh, yeah." Then I'm only a few inches away from her, and she takes advantage of the opportunity—before even I can make a move, she lifts her hand, grasping my chin in her delicate fingers, and pulls me down into a long, intimate kiss. It's amazing—she's good, really good, and everything about her is as burning hot as the desert at noon—the quick movement of her lips, the way she shifts her legs to thread them through mine, the almost painful twist of her hand in my hair.

I'm not really even aware of us moving, but somehow we're stumbling backwards, and she must be directing us, because the next thing I know we're in an even darker room, and she's falling backwards onto the bed, and me with her—she's kissing me harder than ever, one hand snaking up my shirt—

Then I feel the hardness of the ring against my skin.

"Wait," I mutter, "wait… sweetheart, I can't do the affair thing, I…"

"Seeing someone, are you?" Her green eyes glint out of the darkness, the only thing visible in the whole room, and I can feel her heavy breathing underneath me. I twinge—God knows how much I want this, but a married woman is… impossible.

"'Course I'm not." I reach down to cover her fingers in my own, running my thumb over the metal band by way of explanation.

"Oh." She giggles again, and this time it sends chills down my spine. "That's not a wedding ring, silly… it's much more than that." Out of nowhere, her voice seems to take on a deeper layer. Something shifts inside of me—_something is wrong, very, very wrong—_but before I can make a move, she's flipping me over and shoving me down on the bed, hard, and then she's the one straddling me, laughing, her hair—vivid red, I know, even though it's invisible now—spills over my cheeks and neck, tickling them. "Much more powerful."

It hits me, all at once.

Shit, I was _stupid. _The fake name, the talent with weapons, the delight in violence, the inexplicable ring… "You're War," I say, almost wonderingly, even as a part of me cusses itself hoarse with pure frustration at how damn _stupid _I've been. "You've been War all along."

"There you go, honey. Finally a bit of smarts." She dips her neck to kiss me again, but this time I protest—it's like my body's gone cold all at once, and I struggle, but her fingers are strong as iron, pinning me in place. "Don't squirm, now, baby… sex is just as lovely as murder, don't you think? It gives that same _thrill… _and humans have been addicted to both since the beginning of time, after all…"

Then, out of nowhere, there's a flash of blinding white light. I yell and squeeze my eyes shut—her hands are yanked painfully away from mine, and then a high, feminine shriek fills the air, along with a massive rushing sound that reaches a deafening crescendo before dying away all at once. Silver and purple afterimages dance over the back of my eyelids, and I crack them open tentatively, to see that the room is slightly brighter than before—the curtain is pulled open, allowing moonlight to drift inside. It illuminates a simple bed, the sheets mussed up… War is gone.

Then I turn, and I see him there—a knife in one hand and the ring in the other, shining faintly gold, his eyes alight with blue fire and wide with desperate determination.

Cas.

"What—how did you…?" Maybe it's just the suddenly cut-off horniness, but for some insane reason, I can't help but stare at him. Something about him is just unshakably… _gorgeous _in the silver light. The messiness of his dark hair, his strong form underneath the tan drape of the trench coat… "How did you know to—?"

"I… I followed you," he mutters, ducking his head in a way clearly expressing shame. "I came to find you as soon as it got dark, and when she took you back, I…"

"Suspected?" Of course, he's always been clever—

"I—no." He won't meet my eyes, for some reason. Instead, his are directed towards the floor, and though it's difficult to tell in all the shadows, it seems almost like he's flushing. "I—didn't think it was appropriate for you to—I was attempting to prevent—I—I didn't want…"

"You didn't want me to do her?"

He's silent.

"What… Cas…" Something strikes me then, something totally, completely ridiculous, and yet somehow plausible, in the insane part of my mind. "Were you _jealous?_"

Finally, he looks up, and his stare meets me like a punch in the stomach—so, _so _bright blue, so apologetic and deep and pained and—

"I'm sorry, Dean."

It's the same thing he said back with Lucifer, and then that all comes back like a tidal wave—the raging burn of protectiveness that I felt over him, the need to keep him alive, the desperation, the pain, the—

—_Love—_

I'm on my feet, suddenly, and up next to him, and my arm is around his waist, my other hand cupping his chin—feeling the warmth of his skin, fingering the soft roughness of his stubble, savoring the firm weight of his chest as it presses against mine. All I can see are his eyes, and it seems like they're never-ending.

"Don't you dare apologize, you freaking idiot," is all I say, and then I throw away every last bit of reason and I kiss the damned angel like it's the end of the world.

Which, I reflect as he groans against me, as his hands move to link around my neck and my tongue caresses his mouth and his hips nudge against mine, it really is.


	16. Chapter 15: Amy Pond

**Thanks to** _azebra117_

**Disclaimer** ___I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Amy Pond

I breathe underwater  
It's all in my hands  
But what can I do?  
Don't let it fall apart  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"Good luck," the Doctor says, the smile on his lips fully reflected in his eyes. I'm not sure why, but something tells me that he doesn't just mean good luck on our mission to find and incapacitate Pestilence—somehow, he realizes what Rose and I are going through. All the ups and downs that have scarred our relationship ever since this absurd quest started—he's aware of them, seemingly, or at least I can assume so by the meaningful layer to his eyes.

Or perhaps I'm just being paranoid. That's it—surely, it must be. After all, he's the Doctor. He's absurdly ignorant about things going on around him.

"Thanks." I glance towards Rose, and she nods slightly. I raise my hand in a nervous wave to the rest of the TARDIS—the Doctor, Sherlock, Molly, Gwen, and Sam. The hunters of Famine and Death. Hopefully Dean and Cas have been doing well with War, who certainly sounds like the most dangerous of the bunch, except for Death, perhaps. The two of them are strong, though. If any of them can take the red Horseman, it's them.

"Let's go," Rose murmurs. I take a deep breath and turn, stepping out of the TARDIS and onto a grey city street. We're in America, according to the Doctor—the Winchesters said that the Horsemen would all be focusing their efforts around the country, save Death, who's really everywhere all the time. It doesn't look much different than London, though. Same magnificent architecture, same mist of rain in the air, same huddled clumps of people in heavy coats going about their business.

"There's the hospital." Rose raises a gloved hand in the direction of a more modern-looking building, with clear glass doors that open to a busy-looking lobby full of white-clad employees and people who, even from across the street, I can tell are assaulted by all manner of ailments—some are sneezing violently, others perched in wheelchairs—one is even doubled over with her hands clamped to her mouth, as if to keep from vomiting.

I feel a frown taking shape on my features. "Are American hospitals always this busy on Wednesday afternoons?"

"I doubt it." She starts across the crosswalk of the busy street rapidly, her arms folded over her chest and her silvery breath puffing in the frosty air. I hurry behind her. My pace is far from hasty. She may be eager, but I can't help but feel the opposite—I don't necessarily _want _to encounter this Horseman. Of course it'll be necessary, and it's not like I'm going to be avoiding it when it really matters, but… well… I'm afraid, I realize slowly. I'm afraid of sickness, which Pestilence apparently specializes in spreading. And, if the sparse religious lessons I received as a child are any indication, it's not just the flu and chicken pox that he's going to be putting me in danger of. Pestilence's sicknesses are just as much emotional and physical, and being near him could threaten me with other, more potent poisons—doubt, anger, resistance… and the only person with me is Rose. If this Horseman is about to twist my mind with misperceptions and physical illness, I don't want her to be the one to catch either of them from me.

But I can't put this off. They all need me, so I force myself forward, keeping my eyes carefully focused on the blonde sheen of Rose's hair as I half-run over the cement to close the alarmingly wide distance that's grown between us.

"Are you okay?" she asks me gently once we're right outside the doors. Everything about me cringes away from the hospital, but I nod, my stomach tightening into knots.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." I pull on a fake smile for her benefit. "Let's go."

Warm air hits me as soon as we push our way inside, but it's not a relief. There's a bitter sort of smell on it that can't quite be disguised by layers of antiseptic odor, and everywhere around me is a chorus of coughs, sneezes, groans, and even tears from the youngest patients. Every plastic waiting chair is full, and several other people stand around morosely with nowhere to sit. There are seven receptionists working at a table that looks like it's only meant to hold about three, and nurses dart here and there like little white sprites, carting off the most severely afflicted patients.

"This is awful," Rose breathes, and I move instinctively closer to her. I couldn't agree more.

"How are we going to get their attention?" My eyes flit through the crowd. "If the plan is to get me admitted… but there's no way, not with this many people already waiting."

And yet even before the words are out of her mouth, a harried-looking woman is at our side. Her blonde hair is a mess, pinned haphazardly below her pale nurse's cap, and her lips are pressed thin with exhaustion, emphasized also by the dark shadows under her eyes. "We announced on the news, ladies, we can't take any more sick patients. You're all going to be moved to a separate, quarantined building."

The way she pronounces _sick _is odd, stressed. "You're full?" I ask, feigning surprise even though the fact doesn't shock me in the least.

She heaves a heavy sigh. "Not _entirely _full, but, miss, we simply can't take anyone with the disease, it—"

_"The disease?" _Rose repeats warily. "What's… what's the disease?"

She gawks at us for a full three seconds. "You—oh, you know, it's that awful thing, the…" A nervous swallow bobs her throat. "The people are calling it the… the White Death, because of the white boils that develop later on, and, well—the similarity in terms of devastation to the Black Death plague—but this is _nothing _like that, I promise, and it'll all be under control just as soon as we can get you all isolated."

"Well, I—I don't have that," I insist. "I've never even heard of the White Death, we were just passing through, both of us. I'm here for… for this." My hand moves to my stomach, to where the baby is lying surprisingly still, so that I can't even feel the slightest twist. "She's due any day—any hour, practically, and I… I wanted to be ready."

_She. _It's only the second time I've referred to my child as a girl—the first one being to Rose, all the way back on the dinosaur planet, the night of Rory's death… when I told her I was pregnant.

The nurse's narrow eyes flicker up and down my figure, then move slowly to my swollen belly. After regarding us warily for a full three seconds, she gives a short nod and turns on her heel.

"Fine, then. As long as you're sure you don't have the sickness… follow me, then."

She cuts a path through the ill throng, issuing the occasional dry reminder that they're all going to be transferred relatively soon. I sidle up to Rose as we move closer to a door, my lips barely moving with my whisper to her.

"It really is like a plague, isn't it?"

"Seems so." Her tone is bitter, grim.

The nurse leads us through a door at the side of the room, and as soon as she closes it behind us, the noise is all abruptly cut off. My ears are left ringing, and our footsteps seem immensely loud as we move down the thinly carpeted hall.

"The maternity ward is along this way," she explains over her shoulder. "I would give you a more thorough check-in, but I'm afraid that everything is a bit chaotic right now, what with the Wh—the sickness."

"It's fine," I promise, my eyes trailing along the walls, which are papered with a subtle golden flower print. It's a pleasant-looking place on the inside, really—almost like a hotel, except for the glass panels in all the rooms' doors. The hallway seems completely abandoned, and not so much as a janitor passes us as we trek along, finally reaching a small brown sign hung on the wall labeled _MATERNITY. _

"We only have two other mothers in right now." The nurse's voice is surprisingly warm after the briskness from before, and her face seems to age five years as she opens the nearest door. "I don't work in this ward, you know, most of my job is focused around the diseased patients right now—but you know, it is awfully sweet to see a newborn child."

"I suppose so." I half-grin as I step into the room. There's only one bed, but it still has drawn-back drapes set up around it, for some odd reason. My impression of the hospital's similarity to a hotel is carried over in here, and the bed looks as comfortable as that of any four-star inn. A modern TV is even perched on the wall opposite it.

"Now, you just rest, sweetheart." Her attitude is now entirely warm, and she even helps me get into the bed, pressing gently on my shoulders to better situate me against the several pillows, each of which is coated with a removable layer of sanitary material.

"Thank you," I say, kicking off my shoes and settling back. I don't need to rest, not really, but anything to keep our disguise up is good. We're already lucky that we've been accepted so fast—I'm not ready to ruin our comfortable closeness to Pestilence's home base just yet.

"Of course. Now, ma'am, if you can just come along with me and fill out some papers…"

She beckons to Rose, who flashes me a quick smile. _Good luck, _she mouths—the same thing that the Doctor said—and then the two of them exit the room, leaving me alone with the hum of the heater.

I exhale and slowly run a hand through my hair. _We're in. _But I don't know what to do now—Pestilence is here somewhere, but where? My eyes rove over the blank walls as if expecting him to spring from them, snow-colored horse and all, just waiting for me to snatch the ring off his finger.

Human forms. Cas said human forms were most likely. So, what? One of the doctors? One of the nurses—

_One of the nurses?_

Had _that _been her? Were we just right by Pestilence herself? I rack my brains, trying to remember if there had been any sort of ring on her finger, but I can't quite bring it to mind.

My heart skips a beat as I remember that she has Rose.

_Shit, shit, shit. _What the hell am I supposed to do now? I can't just let it take her away, but it's not like I can chase, either, I can't blow our cover—and I'm just making stupid assumptions, anyways, who's to say that she really was Pestilence? Just because she let us in easily… anxious nausea is building up in my stomach, and I force myself to take deep breaths, but they only succeed in filling my lungs with choking, burning disinfectant. My fingers clutch the sheets tighter, sweat bursting forth on my palms.

What am I doing here? A half-sob curls around my throat, and I feel my lips begin to tremble. I'm in the middle of America, in some town that no one's heard of, and I'm in a hospital full of people infected with the new Black Death—Rose is gone. How did I let her be taken away from me again? After Lucifer, after Cas's torture, I swore that I wouldn't let her out of my sight again. And yet here I am now, and I feel like I'm about to collapse into a full-scale panic attack any second. I need the Doctor, need him to come in the TARDIS and get us out of here, but I can't try to contact him before we've found Pestilence. I can't risk it.

I continue breathing deeply, squeezing my eyes shut and clenching my teeth to try and tame the heat rearing in my stomach. It's fine. Everything's under control; I can't lose track of my mind. Not now. I need to hold it together, think logically. The nurse isn't Pestilence. That would be ridiculous. We're in, _we're in _and we're safe, and Rose is just off filling out some papers to confirm as much. She'll be back to see me as soon as she's done. There won't be a problem. There _won't be a damn problem. _

Still, the knowledge doesn't stop me from sitting straight up in bed when the door opens again, about a quarter hour later. Adrenaline is pulsing through me before I process the familiar curvy figure and blonde hair, the wide brown eyes gazing at me questioningly.

"Are you alright, Amy?" she asks, half-smiling nervously.

"Me?—Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, of course." I weakly return the smile and settle back into the pillows. _She's fine, see? I told you she'd be fine, you idiot. _"So… am I all signed in, now?"

She nods but doesn't answer aloud as she navigates her way over to a plastic chair sitting next to the bed and sits, folding her hands in her lap. Her looks in my direction continue to be concerned—apparently I look more freaked out than I feel. Several of these nervous glances occur, and I finally huff out a sigh.

"Are _you _okay?"

"Of course, yeah. But you look… I don't know… pale."

"Do I?" I half-shrug, trying to think of an explanation. All I can think of is telling her the truth—how my imagination launched completely overboard after she left, how I was nearly overcome with strange, desperate insecurity. Instead, I go for a more subtle way of voicing my still predominant concerns. "By the way, Rose, you didn't… notice anything about that nurse, did you? Anything unusual?"

"No, why?" A faint frown creases her face, and I hasten to explain, hoping that I haven't upset her.

"Just—something about her, I don't know, didn't quite seem trustworthy. Sort of… a little _too _willing to let us in, you know? Like she knew something that we didn't."

It takes her half a beat to realize exactly what concern I've been avoiding speaking aloud. "You think that she was Pestilence."

"No, of course not!" I snort. "Nothing like that, I just… well…" I really don't have anything else to say, I suppose. My suspicion is a bit obvious.

"She's not," Rose assures me with a gentle laugh.

I bite my lip. "How—are you completely sure? I mean…"

"Yeah. No ring."

"Oh." I suppose that does clear things up. For the first time since our arrival, I relax completely, listening to the steady hum of the heater and gazing at the bright, fluorescent light until tears begin to prick at my eyes from the strain.

"I hate this," she declares quietly, after a while. "Seeing you like this… it's not a good image."

"What do you mean?" I can't help but think she's particularly gorgeous right now, and the ever-so-slight flush that spreads over her cheeks at my words only increases it.

"Just… to think of you being hurt. Enough to be put into a hospital, I… I can't stand it." She glances up at me almost shyly, chocolate eyes bright through a fringe of overlong hair. I reach out without thinking and gently push aside the silky blonde curtain.

"You need to cut your bangs," I muse.

"I'm trying to grow them out, actually."

I raise my eyebrows but don't comment, and let my hand fall back onto the bed. She reaches forward to grip it, tightly and firmly. "Really, though. You're really—you're really strong, Amy, I don't want you to ever get hurt."

"_Ever _get hurt?" I snort. "That's quite something to say. I'm going to stub my toe every once in a while."

"You know what I mean," she sighs, and it strikes me that she's not really in the mood for joking. I don't have anything to say, then, so I focus on the feel of her fingers wrapped around mine, the warmth and the firmness and the security. Once more, neither of us talk for a long time, and I don't mind. It's pleasant—recharging my batteries, in a way. Her presence somehow manages to both calm me down and give me energy all at once.

I wonder for the first time if I'm in love with her.

Of course I _like _her. I have since the start. But… I never really targeted it to be anything beyond that. I know I loved Rory, at one point, and yet I was so sure that Rose would never grow to replace him. She was something solid for me to cling to, a placeholder, really, who I latched onto more for her bland attractiveness and _availability _than anything else.

But now, watching her under the stark hospital lights, with her concerned words running through my mind, I feel something else. Something deeper, something that I haven't felt since Rory, tingling through my chest and up my throat, before moving to sting at the back of my eyes. I've grown reliant on her, more so than I ever intended. And along the way, I think that I might have done it. Broke again. Ignored all the bits of me that said a relationship can only bring pain, that I'm better off without a partner…

Hell, I think I've really done it. I went and fell for Rose Tyler.

Acknowledging such a thing gives me an almost giddy, fierce sort of pleasure, and I feel myself smiling ever so slightly—not even enough to be visible, but it's still there, teasing and definite.

_I love you, Rose._

I'm not ready to say it, not yet. She's said it to me, said it plenty of times, but I never have to her, and I don't intend to yet. Perhaps not for a while. I can wait until the right moment, in any case.

I'll wait for the right moment, when this is all over, and then I can let her know.

* * *

Rose leaves a while later, saying that she'll scout the place out—which, after all, is the reason we're here in the first place. I let her go, even with the uneasiness that her departure sparks in me, and go back to watching the clock on my bedside table. Shouldn't a doctor have checked in with me by now? Just to hook me up to some sort of machine, or given me a patient's wristband, if nothing else. They're probably too occupied with the whole White Death thing to have much concern for a young, relatively healthy woman in the maternity ward.

At five in the evening, three hours after we first arrived, Rose bursts in again. I once again react in a startled manner, but this time it's not due to paranoia—she really is noisy as she springs in, and it only takes me a moment to process her bright eyes and breeze-tussled hair, and to realize that she must have found something.

"I think I've got it!" she declares eagerly. "He's a doctor monitoring the White Death thing—he's at the head of it, actually. The nurses say that he visits anyone displaying symptoms, and officially diagnoses them—think about it, though. Symptoms are basically _anything, _right? Sore throat, common cold, aching back—everyone with any sort of mild sickness is being tested for the White Death."

"Yeah… and?" I was half-asleep when she burst in, and now I'm struggling to process all of her rapid words.

"And _what if he's giving them the disease? _Think about it, Amy—the whole town is completely paranoid now. So whenever someone gets sick, they come here to be examined by this doctor. He's actually Pestilence, so he infects them with the disease, then 'confirms' that they're sick—there you go. He'll have everyone sooner or later—nobody can avoid the cold forever, especially not this season. Oh, and of course he's got a ring—a big bulky thing, it's impossible to miss."

I blink slowly, processing it all, then begin to nod. "Alright… does this doctor have a name?"

She beams. "Of course, that's the best part—Dr. Jinete. Ring a bell?"

_Jinete. _A frown tugs at my mouth. "No… should I?"

She rolls her eyes, but her good humor doesn't seem to decrease. "Didn't you ever take Spanish in primary school? Horseman, silly—Jinete means rider, or horseman!"

Well, there's really no denying that—unless it's some sort of massive coincidence. She really has found him. I slowly begin to grin, and straighten up, pulling the overheated covers off my legs. "What's the plan, then?" I question eagerly. "How are we going to get him?"

"It's gonna be hard to actually get the ring alone. So, well… I thought we'd just cut off his finger. Can't really hurt him, right? After all, it's not like he's a person, just the spirit of disease…" She flashes her hand up, and I see a glitter of metal in it—a stick with a small blade at the end… a scalpel. And a very large, sharp one at that. "Where'd you get that?" I ask in disbelief, my eyes widening as the razor glimmers menacingly with a twist of her wrist. "I thought—what? How?"

"Surgery. I spent quite a bit of time wandering around, you know." The look on her face is unmistakably proud. I can't deny that I'm growing excited, too. We're that much closer to conquering ownership of Pestilence's ring, a fourth of the key to defeating Lucifer.

"You're brilliant," I tell her, "absolutely—"

A quick, sharp knock raps on the door. I look over in surprise, and Rose hastily steps back. We look at each other in confusion, then I shrug and mouth _go ahead. _

"Come in?" she calls out, almost questioningly.

The door opens, revealing a very tall, _very _thin man in a white lab coat. And it's not the only white thing about him—he seems to be completely composed of the pale hue. His skin is only a shade darker than paper, and his eyes are a misty grey, alarmingly light. Though he seems fairly young, his hair is snowy silver, cut rather messily considering the primness of his outfit. As a matter of fact, he seems more than a little untidy underneath the uniform—almost like some sort of street rat forced into a doctor's clothes.

He smiles thinly and takes a step in. "Miss Tyler. What a coincidence."

"Oh—Dr. Jinete!" she greets, sounding flustered. A chill runs through me at the name. _Jinete. _This is him—this is Pestilence. Rather than growing shaky with my nervousness like before, though, I stiffen up, my eyes barely widening.

"Rose mentioned you," I say smoothly. "The genius who identifies the White Death patients, isn't that right?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say _genius,_" he chuckles, his American accent grating on me as he paces closer. "Though that's awfully kind of you, Ms.…"

"Pond." I swallow thickly and try to speak again, this time choosing my words more carefully. "This isn't really your department, though, is it? I can promise I'm not sick."

"Oh, I'm sure you can, ma'am. Inconveniently, though, it's currently a requirement of the hospital that we go through and give each one of you a thorough check." He's close enough to sit on the edge of the bed now, and that's exactly what he does, still with that odd little smile curving his cheeks. His eyes are the color of ice—it's extremely disorienting, actually, to be pinned under their pale stare. I shift uneasily.

"Not that you need to worry. It's entirely painless—no shots, no prodding, not so much as a squeeze. I just need to take a look down your throat."

"Why?"

"Because that's where the boils first develop, of course." He seems mildly surprised. "They'll begin to take shape within hours of contracting the illness, but the external signs don't show until days or even weeks later. What with the infected lobby that you recently went through, I can't help but be concerned. Just open up, now, I'll be quick." His hand moves up to touch my jaw, gesturing that I release it, and I catch sight of a ring out of the corner of my eye—silver, and set with what seems to be a large black stone. Then he's forcing my mouth open with an alarming violence, even as I stutter out protests. I realize what he's going to do all at once, what he must have done to all the other patients—breathe in my mouth, and give me the disease. The White Death. The thing that's as immensely destructive as one of the greatest plagues in history. I raise my voice, but Pestilence has dropped all pretense—I can tell that he knows who I am just as much as I know him, and he's done with chatting, he's going to give me the disease—

But he doesn't get the chance to whisper it into my throat, because he suddenly jerks back, shrieking in pain and gripping his left hand. As I stare, vividly crimson liquid dribbles onto the pure white bedspread, and his face contorts into something ugly and furious and not quite human.

"You pathetic creatures!" he snarls, and releases his left hand just long enough for me to see that his ring finger is completely gone, leaving only a stump swamped in dark blood. The sight turns my stomach, but also sends a rush of triumph through me.

"_You'll never win,_" the Horseman snarls, and then he disappears all at once, so Rose and I are left staring at each other in horror. She's holding the ring, the silver of which is stained crimson, and Pestilence's disembodied finger seems to have vanished along with the rest of him, off to God knows where.

"Let's get out of here," I breathe, and I've never seen her nod more emphatically than she does now.


	17. Chapter 16: Gwen Cooper

**Thanks to** _azebra117_

**Disclaimer** ___I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Gwen Cooper

A shot in the dark  
A shot in the dark  
I feel you fading away  
I feel you fading away  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"I'm not going to be good with this," I say immediately as the TARDIS takes off. I figure it's good to at least give him fair warning ahead of time, so that he doesn't expect me to be brilliant. I'm not good with people, not really—well, compared to Owen or Ianto or even Tosh, sure, but I used to be a _police officer, _and I'm far more grained for hardcore interrogations than light, gentle small talk. In short, I'm purely awful at convincing anyone to trust me, and that's exactly what I'm about to try and do, with Sam by my side.

We're in a far back alley of the dingiest part of New York City—the sector known to be the poorest and the hungriest. And we have a plan, at least some sort of one: talk to everyone, especially the homeless. Try and target Famine. And, well… find it. The Black Horseman.

Alright, so it's going to be pretty damn near impossible, but it's all we've got.

Sam glances down at me, tucking his hands into his pockets and releasing his breath in a silvery puff of mist. "It's okay," he murmurs. "I'm used to… disguise."

Before I can ask what the hell that means, he's started down the alleyway, frost crunching under the soles of his shoes. I hurry after. My jacket, practical and tough as it may be for use at Torchwood, really isn't suitable for wearing in weather like this, and I find myself shivering, envying Dean and Cas, who got to be dropped off in a boiling hot desert.

The atmosphere of this place is disgusting. Grime seems to hang in the air itself, and the late-morning sun is completely obscured by clouds, though I can't tell whether they're actual water vapor or just alarming levels of smog. Everything seems to be painted in a washed-out grey, which only adds to the impression of bitter cold pressing in on all of my senses. I take a deep breath and walk faster, trying to keep up with Sam's long legs.

To my surprise, I've barely reached his side when he reaches out and wraps an arm around my shoulders, squeezing them gently. I look up, my eyes wide, to see him half-smiling down at me—the first time the expression has been on his face since the discovery of Gabriel's death.

"You looked cold," he says gently.

I don't reply, but I don't push his arm away, either. It's nice. Really nice, and notably warmer—the guy's like a portable heater. The snowflakes suddenly don't seem nearly as chilling when they land on my nose and gather in my eyelashes, and I can't help but grin a tiny bit.

We walk for a few more minutes, with no one in sight. Of course, this is the sort of weather that anyone avoids if they're given the choice, and it's probably stupid that we were even expecting to find people this way—we should have taken advantage of the TARDIS's time-traveling capabilities, I think with a hint of irritation at my previous stupidity, and found a better day, when people would be out and about, willing to talk. Then again, I suppose it is winter when starvation is the most prevalent, and that's what we need to concern ourselves with now.

Sam suddenly stops walking, his fingers tightening on my shoulder. I look up at him in surprise to see him staring at a point a ways down the alley. At the end of his line of vision is a girl—a small, dark-skinned girl, shuddering insanely, wearing a thin coat and watching us with wide eyes. Her hair falls in tangled black waves around her thin face, and her eyes are wide, the chocolate brown striking even from several yards away.

I wait for him to make the first move, but he doesn't, just swallows uncomfortably. "Go on, then," I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, "you said you'd talk to them."

"Yeah, well, I didn't expect _them _to be eight-year-olds."

He does have a point. I shrug, sigh, and carefully disengage myself from his arm, trying not to shudder at the sudden onslaught of cold. I hurry down the alleyway, sending out a series of crunches as I break the thin layer of frost covering the cement. She takes a half-step back, watching warily, but doesn't run, not even when I'm right in front of her and struggling to catch my breath.

"Hey, sweetie." I crouch down so that she's higher than me, and look up into her wide, dark eyes. "Where are your parents?"

She doesn't answer, but her small hands, dusky blue from the cold, clench into fists. For a moment, she seems to teeter on the brink of speaking, but then she bursts out a desperate plea all at once, her voice high and imploring.

"Can you help my brother?"

"Your brother?" I start to frown, but then hastily smooth it into a look that's nothing beyond gentle questioning. "Where's he?"

I hear Sam's footsteps behind me, and then he kneels down at my side—I pretend not to notice how his arm almost instinctively loops back around my shoulders. The girl's gaze flicks to him for a moment, but she seems generally unperturbed.

"Back at the building. He—he's dying." She drags in a heavy sniffle, then wipes her sleeve over her nose. "He's so hungry… we all are."

"Do you need food?" Sam questions.

The girl shakes her head rapidly enough for her dark hair to sting her cheeks. "No—n-no, we try to feed him, but he just gets hungrier—all of us just keep getting hungrier! He's eating all of our food, and we don't have _enough _food, and… I… I think he's sick… mama doesn't want me to be out here." She swallows heavily. "But she'll be okay with it if I can get help—_will _you help? Please?"

I feel Sam tense, and I nod internally to myself. It is Famine—it must be. "Yes," I offer soothingly, "of course we'll help. Just show me where your brother is, and we'll see what we can do."

"Really?" A tiny grin curls the corners of her mouth, and she rubs her hands together in delight. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! It's this way—" And then she takes off in a whirl of dark hair and purple jacket, and Sam and I are quickly standing up, trotting after her.

"Are you sure this is it?" I check, eyeing the girl anxiously.

"It can't be anything else, can it? Of course, we probably aren't going to find Famine _in _the apartment, but if this boy is the most affected, maybe he can lead us to its real source."

I nod. It makes sense—sort of; I can't exactly see how a boy could "lead us" to Famine's source, but Sam's much more experienced with this sort of thing than I am, so I don't question him. "You know," I comment a moment later, "you'd be good with Torchwood."

"Torchwood?" He frowns for a second before his expression clears up. "Oh, right, that's the—the place you work for, right?"

"Yeah. We fight aliens—find something suspicious going on, then we hunt down whatever's behind it and get rid of them."

"Sounds a lot like how Dean and I work, actually—a bit more sci-fi, though. I mean, really? You kill aliens for a living?" He laughs softly, sounding just a bit incredulous. I roll my eyes and lightly punch him in the side.

"We don't always _kill _them, they can be dealt with peacefully sometimes. And you don't have to act like it sounds so ridiculous—"

"It _does _sound ridiculous."

"Yeah, but you and Dean kill _ghosts, _right?"

"Not just ghosts." He sounds almost playful, and I can't help but look away from the little girl leading our way for a second, so that I can watch his face. He really is beaming now, his expression completely warm. "Demons more than anything else, lately. Um, vampires, werewolves, Djinn, Wendigo, rougarous, witches… just about everything you can imagine. It used to be a pretty straightforward thing, but ever since the angels got involved—"

He stops talking all at once, the smile vanishing like smoke in the wind, and it takes me a moment to realize why. _Gabriel. _Of course. I sigh and shift my shoulders. I won't deny that the archangel inspires a hint of jealousy inside of me, but, more than that, it's painful to see Sam so hurt. "I'm sorry," I tell him as gently as I can. "I really, really am. It's not like I ever knew him, but he seemed… exuberant."

"Exuberant, yeah. And adorable, and hilarious, and charming, and sexy, and clever, and… well, idiotic, it would appear." He's holding himself together well, but I can still hear the carefully suppressed pain in his voice, the clearer definition in his steps that suggests stiffness.

"He died trying to fix things, right? That's what he said—he went after Lucifer. He was trying to make things better, to make it so that you didn't have to do all this…"

"Yeah, and he failed."

I really don't have anything to say to that, so I go quiet, my stare drifting back to the ground. Snow blows lazily along, covering my leather boots in white, which quickly shifts to soggy brown as we plod on. I'm just beginning to lose feeling in my fingertips when the girl comes to a halt, just outside the hulking form of an apartment building, a menacing figure cut against the grey sky. She pushes open the door of a back entrance that seems like it should set off some sort of alarm, but everything remains deathly quiet.

"Come on," she urges, "he's upstairs."

For the very first time, I feel a prickle of suspicion at the back of my neck. This is starting to feel just a little bit _too _convenient. Why was the girl out looking for help, anyways? Did she really expect to find someone on a day like this, or… are we walking right into a trap?

No, I'm just paranoid. I've got to be. There's no way that Famine could have seen us coming, or any of our other enemies, Lucifer included. Sam doesn't hesitate at all, and I follow his lead, stepping warily into the building. We're in a windowless stairwell lit only by a dirty bulb hanging drearily from the ceiling, and the walls are all crusted in dirt and graffiti, as well as patches of what looks like mold. I can't help but wince slightly as the girl closes the door behind us. This place is awful—I can't imagine anyone living here, but apparently they do.

The girl doesn't waste any time. She hurries up the stairs, her footsteps echoing heavily, and we have no choice but to follow her, up and up, looping around a couple of times before she finally stops and pushes one of the doors open.

The hall exposed here is hardly any better. It looks old, very old, and rather abandoned, too—the wooden floor is horribly scratched and dented, with slushy, grey-brown traces of snow strewn all over it. There's no light in here, either, only a snowy, ethereal glow from the single window set into the wall facing the alley, next to us. A large crack runs through the glass, and I can feel a faint tingle of even sharper cold from the other side, though it doesn't seem to be heated in here, either.

"Is your family the only one who lives here?" I ask quietly as the girl moves to a door labeled _205 _in rusty metal numbers. I honestly can't believe that this dump is a functioning apartment building, and not an abandoned dump.

As if cued by my words, the door to room 202, across the hallway, bangs open with seemingly enough violence to tear it off its hinges. Standing there is an unshaven, horribly thin man—at first glance, he appears to be elderly, but as I look closer, I realize with a pang that he doesn't seem to be beyond his thirties. This is disguised by dark grey peppering his overgrown shock of brown hair and a seemingly perpetual squint scrunching up his red-rimmed, watery blue eyes. He has a definite beer belly that hangs pathetically on an otherwise emaciated frame, and his shoulders are small enough to belong to a teenager. I feel absolutely sickened. The little girl has been covered up by a coat this whole time, so I haven't been able to see how skinny she is, but this man is clearly _starving, _and not in a hyperbolic sense, either.

"What the goddamn fuck, you little bitch," he cusses violently, spittle flying from his lips as he sneers to expose yellowing teeth. "The hell are you doing bringing strangers in here? We've barely got 'nough food to feed you and all your damned family, we don't need—"

"They're going to help." Her words are strong and calm in contrast to his slurred shouting, and I absolutely marvel at her steadiness. Sam and I are both gaping openly at the man, unable to believe that anyone could be so rude, really.

"Like 'ell they're gonna help. They're gonna starve you and your nigger family out, you stinking cunt, and then—"

"How about you shut up?" Sam steps forward, taking a warning stance in front of the man. My eyes widen—though I'm sure that he could take the drunkard without effort, especially if I helped, we really can't afford to get into this right now.

"The fuck should I do that for?"

Then I look back at the girl, with those wide, desperate eyes and tightly pressed lips, and his words seem to echo in my mind again—_they're gonna starve you and your nigger family out, you stinking cunt—_and I step forward, practically shaking with suppressed rage.

"I'll tell you _what you should do that for,_" I growl, moving up to stand next to Sam. "For your own good, that's what."

His gaze swerves over to me, and he squints, lips curving into an even more furious scowl. "Is that so, you little British creep? And what're you gonna do to stop me, huh? Gonna knock me over with your tits? 'Cause I can't figure you're good for much else."

Everything inside of me wants to reach forward, take the asshole by the throat, and show him just how much I'm capable of, but Sam takes a deep breath, and, seeing that he's attempting to calm down, I reluctantly follow suit. It's not like there's anything we can do right now, after all. We need to focus on finding Famine, not getting into fistfights with random middle-aged—_not even—_drunkards.

Sam forces a genial expression on his face and turns back to the girl, his eyes soft. "Why don't you show us to your brother?"

The man's curses follow us inside as the girl nods and steps through the doorway, leaving Sam and me to follow. There aren't any windows in here, but the lights are on, and the furnishings are actually decent—no five-star hotel, that's for sure, but at least things look a bit less derelict. There's a faded but colorful rug spread over the floor, as well as a threadbare green couch covered in thin blankets, and a couple of pieces of cheap abstract art put up on the walls. A table, stove, and refrigerator are shoved in the corner, presumably serving as a kitchen. It's clear that this family has had to make do with what little they have—and they've done a pretty good job of it, too.

The floor creaks a bit as she leads us through a doorway, into what seems to be the place's only other room. There's no bed inside, but a low table is to our immediate right, with a plate and plastic fork perched on it, apparently licked clean. Three cots lay side by side on the floor—the first is bare, and sitting on the second is a kneeling woman, who has a striking resemblance to her daughter considering the age difference—she's pretty, but her hair is greasy and unkempt, pulled out of her face with a loose band. Stress lines cross over her forehead and around her eyes, and they deepen as she looks up to examine me and Sam.

"Who are you?" she asks. Her voice is cracked and hoarse, far from the melodious lilt of the girl. "Lily, baby, did you bring them here? I told you not to go outside aga—"

"No—no, we're here to help," Sam insists, raising his hands in a gentle, submissive gesture. "My… friend and I were just out on a walk, and then we saw… Lily?" He glances over at the girl to check the name, and she gives a small, almost shy nod of confirmation. "And she asked us if we could help her brother, so we're here to do anything we can."

The woman scoffs and shakes her head. "There's nothing can save him at this point. He's gonna be gone by tomorrow morning." She chokes up slightly, but holds back any tears, keeping her chin high and her eyes bright. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time, though, sir—would you and your wife like something to eat? We…"

_Wife? _I raise my eyebrows, and he laughs slightly, shaking his head. "No, no—not wife. She's my friend. And, no, we couldn't possibly eat your food—things seem pretty tight as it is, and we've got all we need at home, we don't need to take yours. But… ma'am, if you don't mind, we'd really like to take a look at your son. Just in case we might be able to do something—you wouldn't believe the stuff that can be done with technology these days."

"Don't try," she sighs, but she also sits back, and Sam and I take advantage of the opening to step closer, towards the thin figure on the third cot—her son. He's awake, I realize with a shock, watching us with wide eyes the same dark shade as his mother and sister. Several blankets are wrapped around his form, but even with them in place, he's shuddering insanely, and he seems skinny as hell. His features are like a skull's, thin skin draped over sharp cheekbones and eyes gazing hollowly out from their darkened sockets, and I can't help but be amazed at how he's not dead yet. The woman is right—there's nothing we can do, really. This boy will be gone within hours.

"One day… he just became hungry," she explains wearily. I glance over to see her watching with deep, saddened eyes, her chin resting on her hand. "And we gave him as much as he could, but he just wanted more. We've been doing that ever since—he's been eating enough for two men, Jamie has, and Lily and I've barely gotten anything, but he just gets skinnier and skinnier. Lord, I don't know what I'm doing wrong. All I can do at this point is pray that he doesn't have to wait too much longer before he leaves this awful place."

It's a terrible thing to hear a mother say, that she wants her own child dead so that he doesn't have to suffer anymore, and I can hear by the tone of her voice how costly it is to voice the words. She sniffles heavily, and I pretend not to notice as she hastily wipes a tear out of her eye.

"I'm sorry, Ms.…?" Sam begins quietly.

"Patterson, sweetie."

"Ms. Patterson. I'm really sorry that Jamie has to go through this, but we might be able to help—we only might, if you'll just answer a couple of questions."

"To help my little boy?" She half-smiles, her wide lips trembling. "I reckon I'll do just 'bout anything. Don't go thinking that you've got a cure, though, 'cause we've tried everything—even sent him to a doctor, and I had to sell my bed for that one. Everyone says the same thing—'ain't never seen nothing like it before,' they say, and then they tell me to just keep on feeding him, only I can't, see? We don't have enough money to do that, and I don't think it'd help even if we did, to be honest."

"Right. Well…." Sam swallows, and nervously brushes his overlong hair out of his face. "This might sound a bit odd, but I honestly think it could help."

"Fire right away, hon."

"Alright. The man across the hall—fairly short, graying hair… he was harassing your daughter—"

"Yeah, that'll be Mr. Stevenson. He's right awful to Lily, and he was to Jamie, too, before… well." She looks down silently.

"Okay, then, Mr. Stevenson. Did Jamie… did Jamie make any sort of contact with Mr. Stevenson the day that he fell ill? Any sort of… argument, or conversation, even?"

A frown creases her features, and she shakes her head vehemently. "No, we try to never talk to that awful man. He just insults us, see, and we don't—"

She goes silent suddenly, seeming to perk up slightly, and a faint noise replaces her words—a muted, whimpering groan. It takes me a moment to realize that it comes from the starving boy, Jamie, and then I'm kneeling at his side immediately, reaching out and laying my hand at where I estimate his shoulder to be, underneath all those layers of blankets. "Yes, Jamie?" I ask eagerly, rubbing at it carefully—he feels delicate, like if I press too hard, I might break him. "What is it?"

Jamie's mother and Sam turn to watch me with wide eyes, and Jamie's lips stutter, a tiny, breathy voice slowly creeping out.

"Mr.… Mr. Stevenson… I talked to him the day I—he—I yell at him… said he's an… ugly old… drunk…."

With a whimper, Jamie's head sinks back to the cot, and he forces his eyes shut, groaning faintly. I step away, giving him space, but look back at Sam, delighted in my discovery. Though I'm really not sure what he was trying to figure out by asking the question in the first place, I can assume that he's on the path to understanding something important.

"He says he did," I repeat, in case Jamie's voice was too quiet for the others to hear. "That he did talk to Mr. Stevenson—and, well, called him an ugly old drunk, apparently." It's nice to know that the bastard got at least a bit of what he deserved.

Sam's eyes light up, and he starts to smile, just ever so slightly. "Great, awesome. So, then, Ms. Patterson, do you know—was Mr. Stevenson ever… married?"

"Not that I know of, sweetie. He doesn't have anyone living with him, in any case. I don't think any woman in her right man would go after a man like him, anyways, am I right?" She smiles wryly, and I return the gesture as Sam straightens up again, looking completely triumphant.

"Thank you, Ms. Patterson—thank you so much. That's all we need, then—good luck with Jamie, we're going to do all we can to help him."

"You won't stay for something to eat?" she asks, sounding slightly concerned. Sam and I both shake our heads hurriedly, and I raise my hands in protest.

"No way," I half-laugh. "You need to eat everything you have. Make sure to keep feeding Jamie no matter what, but you and Lily have to have some for yourself, too."

"Good luck," Sam repeats, then takes my hand and tugs slightly. I offer a wave and a small smile towards Lily, who doesn't return it, but only watches with wide, unblinking eyes. Then Sam leads me out of the room, back into the hallway, where it seems to be colder than ever after the warmth of the bedroom, which had been toasty due to the many bodies pushed into such a small space.

"So, what do you think?" I ask curiously. "Mr. Stevenson—"

"Mr. Stevenson _is Famine, _Gwen!" He takes my wrists, staring eagerly at me. "It all makes sense—he's been hiding out here since everyone first moved in, probably, years ago. But when the Apocalypse was set in motion—I'll bet you that's the exact same day that Jamie blew up at him. So his first blast of power was directed to him, to Jamie—gave him incurable, bottomless starvation, right? And everything fell into place after that—this whole neighborhood began getting hungrier and hungrier. And then there's the ring—he had a ring, like the Horsemen do, but Ms. Patterson said he's unmarried. It makes perfect sense!"

It sounds to me like he's making a hell of a lot of leaps and bounds where there are gaps in the information, but I don't challenge him, just nod. "Alright, so what do we have to do?"

His expression turns grim. "We have to get his ring."

"And… how do we do that?"

A shrug. "I guess we just… go in, and try to grab it. I can't think of anything better, really."

"Wait—_go in and try to grab it?_" I repeat incredulously. "Are you serious? This is _Famine _we're dealing with, Sam—one of the four most powerful beings in the _universe, _and you're saying we should go in and snatch a ring right off his finger?"

"We do have surprise on our side," he points out.

I just gape.

"Listen," he sighs after a moment, his chin tilting down slightly. "I know it's not the smartest thing to do, but that Jamie kid—I want him to live, Gwen, and we don't have any time to waste. He's practically dead already, it's a _miracle _that he's held on this long. We need to do this _now. _So are you with me?"

He's crazy. He's completely crazy, and chances are that he's about to get us both killed. But he also has a point. It's not like Famine is going to know we're coming, and Jamie's dying even as we speak. So I take a deep, heavy breath, and turn towards Mr. Stevenson's door.

"Fine. Let's go."

He doesn't smile, but gives a tight nod, then, without farther hesitation, goes right up and bashes the door in. I can't do much more than stare as it crashes to the ground under his strength, resulting in a resounding crash that's probably audible through the entire building. The dust hasn't even settled when he's dashing through, and I pound after him, entirely disoriented.

As soon as my eyes focus, I see that we haven't caught Famine by surprise, after all—he lounges on a couch, flicking a stray splinter off his forearm, and watches us with watery, lazy eyes. A blast of foul odor hits me, and I see moments later that there are dishes piled all around him, crusted with the remains of all matter of exquisite dinners, from traces of spaghetti sauce in one bowl to a pile of fish bones on another. Fifteen or twenty and all, completely surrounding him like a vomit-worthy imitation of treasure, with him sitting in the middle, the king of it all.

"You can try to take it, you little humans," he sneers. He twists his finger, and I see a silvery ring glinting on it, bright in the dim lighting. "But you aren't gonna get anywhere. Not really. My siblings, they're already on the move. We're all in place, and as hard as you can try, you aren't going to be able to stop the Apocalypse."

"Watch us," Sam snarls, and lunges forward, straight towards Famine's skinny figure. Halfway through the movement, though, he suddenly gasps and falls, his knees and palms colliding heavily with the wooden floor. Famine laughs—a disgusting, cracked sound—and reaches over to where a couple of pristine raspberries sit on the plate nearest to him. He sucks on one thoughtfully, raising his greyed eyebrows.

"Just like that, Winchester—yes, of course I know who you are—_starving. _At this rate, you aren't gonna make it till morning… just like little Jamie."

_Sam. _

Hell no. _Hell _no. I'm not going to let this happen—fucking hell, I'm not going to let Sam die. I don't even think as I dash right up to Famine, surrounded by all his stinking spoils, and reach out for his hand. He draws it away almost teasingly, and then, out of absolutely nowhere, there's a horrible pain shooting through my stomach—a burning, horrifically hollow pain, like my very guts have been scooped out and replaced with acid. It takes me a long moment to realize that this is _hunger, _that this is what Jamie and Sam must be going through—

_—Sam, dammit—_

And somehow, impossibly, I'm forcing myself back up to the feet that I hadn't realized myself to have fallen from, reaching out as fast as I can and wrapping my fingers around Famine's brittle hand—gripping the ring with my nails, and then I'm _wrenching, _and the Horseman lets out a small noise of surprise, and suddenly my stomach is fine again, and I realize that I have the ring clenched in my fist—I have it, I have it, _I have it. _

"Like it or not, hunger really isn't as powerful as you'd like to make it, isn't that right?" I spit in his bewildered-looking face. "You're the weakest of all four of them, you pathetic ass—"

I'm not given the time to completely vent my rage, though, before he's simply _gone, _disappeared from frame to frame in my vision. I let out a growl of frustration, but then look down at my hand, release my fingers to gaze down at the ring nestled in my palm.

It seems like it was almost too easy, and I breathe heavily, tracing the circle of metal with my fingertip. The hunger still echoes in my stomach—the agony is something that I'm not going to forget in a hurry—but at the same time, I feel the fullest that I have for ages.

_We did it. _


	18. Chapter 17: Molly Hooper

**Thanks to** _azebra117_

**Disclaimer** ___I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

Molly Hooper

Cause your soul is on fire  
A shot in the dark  
What did they aim for  
When they missed your heart?  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

The TARDIS is quiet. Completely, deafeningly silent—none of us make a noise, and it seems like even the machine's own workings have softened their usual groaning and churning in order to add to the tension of the moment. The Doctor stands with his hand on the closed door, his head hanging slightly as Sam and Gwen walk away beyond any of our vision. My stomach is roiling, and I can't seem to take my hand from where it tightly grips the golden railing looping around the console. Sherlock is leaning against the wall across the room from me, his pale eyes unblinking and fixated on an indefinite point over my shoulder. None of us move. None of us speak.

We don't need to say a word, though, to know that we're all thinking about the same thing.

Death. We can't put it—him—off any longer. All the others are gone—first Dean and Castiel to War, then Rose and Amy to Pestilence, and finally Sam and Gwen to Famine. It's up to the three of us to confront the greatest of the Apocalyptic Horsemen, and I don't think I've ever been more terrified in my entire life.

And Sherlock and the Doctor are scared, too. I can tell, even though their expressions are completely cut off, blank and neutral. They're both hiding underneath those cold, pale shells—Sherlock veils himself behind a curtain of icy disinterest, while the Doctor does the opposite: forces himself into delight, animation, perhaps with the hope that he'll fall into the trick just as easily as everyone else.

I can see right through them. I always have with Sherlock, which, I suppose, is why I thought I loved him so much. I saw things in him that nobody else did, that nobody else _could, _and I wanted him to see those things, too.

But then John came, and, well—John made up for me, several times over. He saw what I saw, and he acted on it; he _told _Sherlock how brilliant and amazing and fantastic he really was, did the right thing in all the places where I was too afraid to. Sherlock deserved John, and vice versa.

John's dead now, though. And so is the man who I thought I might actually have a life with—Jim. _Jim Moriarty. _They're both gone, stolen away, and we're about to meet their thief.

"So," I begin nervously, faking a smile. My word singes through the air, jerking both of the other two out of their petrified stupors, and they look quickly over at me. The TARDIS feels too empty, I notice self-consciously, and the usually warm light from the console's pillar in the center feels frosty and distant. "No time to waste, right?"

"No time is _being _wasted," Sherlock growls. "We have to be prepared."

"And you're… preparing yourself?" I ask carefully.

"Mentally. I'd advise that you do the same, Molly."

"No," the Doctor cuts in, before I can pull together some kind of bumbling answer. "There's no use in procrastinating, is there?" His lips curve up, but I can't call the action a smile. He steps away from the door, then, and hurries over to where I stand, playing lightly with his sleeve cuffs. "Are you ready, then, Miss Molly?"

"What—ready to go confront Death and ask him for his ring?" I laugh anxiously, and it sounds more like a high-pitched croak. "Not exactly."

"Fear is good," Sherlock speaks up, watching me narrowly.

Then, to my amazement, he and the Doctor speak the next words together, their voices both distinct and entwined at the same time: "Fear keeps you fast."

The Doctor looks incredibly pleased at this accidental unison. "Exactly! Sherly's got it exactly. Fear keeps you fast, and even if _running _from Death isn't the most useful thing, it'll be best if you're ready to act quick. We all need to be."

"Don't call me _Sherly,_" Sherlock mutters, his lip curling with disgust, but the Doctor deigns to ignore him.

"Where are we, um, going to _find _Death, anyways?" I ask, reaching up to run my fingers along the end of my ponytail. "I mean… is there some sort of ritual that we can use to call him in, or…?"

"Ritual?" the Doctor repeats thoughtfully. "There could be, we might be able to look something up—"

"There's no need to look anything up," Sherlock objects. "Death is everywhere. All we have to do is call for him, and he'll come… though it's probably best to do it someplace that at least one of us is connected to, and… somewhere where there's already a prevalence of death."

I nervously glance back and forth between them—the Doctor is looking at me in an almost expectant way, and, I realize with a ripple of confusion, so is Sherlock. "Wh-what? I don't…" Then it hits me—the same thing that must have occurred to them moments ago. "Oh." My gaze drifts down to my shoes. It's perfect, I realize. There's really no other choice—it's utterly ideal. "The morgue."

"It might be hard for you, but we need to do it." The Doctor rests his hands on my shoulders, his eyes wide and imploring. "It's absolutely perfect—we don't have any other choices like this, we _need _to do it."

"No… no, it's fine," I mumble distantly. "It's—I don't mind, really… I mean, it's not like it's my house or anything." I feel a bitter laugh depart from my lips, without remembering putting voice to it. "We have to do this, right?"

"We absolutely have to do this," the Doctor confirms, while Sherlock nods emphatically from over his shoulder.

I take a breath. "Then this is it. Let's do it."

"That's my girl, Miss Molly," the Doctor beams, and, before I can even register what's happening, he leans forward and kisses me on the lips like it's the most normal thing in the world—it doesn't last long, not more than a split second, enough time for my heart to just about shoot up out of my throat. Then he pulls away, not so much as blushing while I'm sure that my face is roughly the color of a particularly ripe grapefruit. Sherlock watches me with a single raised eyebrow, and I give a light cough, staring pointedly at the ground until he turns with what might be a tiny sniff of disdain.

The Doctor has successfully wiped Death straight off of my mind. Now, instead, I'm completely wrapped up in confusion and half-doubt—are he and I, the Doctor and I, are we… in… a relationship? Are we supposed to be _together _now, or…? My impulsive kiss before hadn't seemed to mean too much, at least in hindsight, but it's not like he goes around randomly snogging all of his companions. Or does he? I don't know; I barely know anything about him at all. My stomach twists and turns, bouncing up and down for what must be at least a couple minutes before it finally settles.

During this time, the Doctor scampers about the TARDIS, seeming to check and re-check every last bit of machinery. I don't say anything, but I know perfectly well what he's doing, and so does Sherlock. He's putting things off. Trying to pretend that we have time to waste (though, I suppose, we theoretically do—even the Apocalypse can't overtake an actual time machine). After he's given each little thing a triple check, though, he can't put things off any longer, and so he sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and moves to the console, which he places both of his hands on, flat and splayed.

"St. Bart's morgue," he murmurs, "here we come."

The TARDIS floor jerks, and my eyes widen—_what?—_somehow, it must have heard him, because it's suddenly moving, grating and churning as it takes off. I stare at the Doctor in astonishment, but he only half-smiles, his eyes brightening ever so slightly.

"That's my girl," he says, so quietly that I can barely hear it over the noise of the machine. "Always take me where I have to go, that's right."

The landing noises fade away far too quickly, and, once more, we all find ourselves standing wordlessly around the bay. This time, though, Sherlock is the first one to move, straightening his shoulders and stepping purposefully towards the door.

"Let's go," he says.

The Doctor and I don't say a word as we follow him. He pushes the door open, and I swallow, not wanting to see the familiar hospital on the other side. It's there, though—in fact, it's my personal autopsy room, recognizable from the distinctive scratch in the shiny surface of the metal table in the center. The mark has been there since before I even started work—I've always wondered where it came from.

I take a deep breath, but the scratch in the metal seems to hold my vision, keeping me paralyzed as it glints faintly under the stark lights.

"Miss Molly…" The Doctor places a hand on my shoulder, and I jump terrifically—oh, God, I'm on edge. Every possible symptom of anxiety seems to be attacking my body at once, hammering heart, elevated breathing, sweat on my palms, uneasy stomach, and I realize now that I don't want to leave the TARDIS because I'm not sure I'll come back.

_What if I don't come back?_

_What if this is it? _

But I can't think like that. Sherlock needs me. Sherlock needs me, and, somehow even more importantly, the Doctor needs me—

The Doctor needs me.

I find myself stepping forwards, and my shoes settle onto the linoleum slowly, soundlessly. The Doctor and Sherlock are right behind me, flanking me as I leave the TARDIS behind, walking with a careful precision, each of my steps selected individually.

"Where do you think he'll be?" I question, glancing over the walls as though expecting Death to melt into existence at any given point. I wonder for the first time what he'll look like—disguised as a person—possibly one I know—or the classic Grim Reaper, swathed in black robes, glittering scythe in hand and skull leering cruelly?

My throat is completely dry. I keep walking, over to the door.

"Molly," Sherlock says quietly, as my fingers settle on the handle.

I close my eyes. I don't want to hear what he has to say.

"He's here."

I turn, slowly, as slowly as I possibly can. Each muscle in my body feels frozen, and I have to concentrate on every one of them in turn to get my body to twist, my neck to bend and see what's behind me. There they are, Sherlock and the Doctor, both staring in half-amazement, half-terror at the third figure there.

A rush of heat runs over me, followed almost immediately by a consuming chill. My head is spinning, and my palms are sweating, and I feel like I might vomit, because it's _him._

_It's him._

"…Jim?" I breathe, barely daring to speak the name.

He tilts his head sideways, regarding me with large, dark eyes. He doesn't look how I remember him—no tight shirt and low-hanging jeans, but instead a finely pressed suit and tie, his hair combed neatly, an almost reptilian smile playing over his features.

"Not quite, darling." Even his voice sounds different—higher, more taunting, swerving up and down with each word. "Though he is a perfectly lovely one to take the form of."

_Oh, God, oh, God, it's him, it's Death, it's here, it's here. This is it, this is Death. _

"I'm not afraid of you," I choke out. It's the first thing I can say, and he smiles, taking a step closer and letting his hand drop, so that his fingers can linger lightly on the metal of the tabletop.

"Are you _quite _sure about that, Molly Hooper? Maybe it's just misperception, but I'd say you look… absolutely _terrified._"

I try to swallow, but can't quite get my throat to move in the right way.

_This is Death, this is Death, this is Death. _

"How did you get here? How did you know that we were looking for you?" Sherlock demands, his eyes wider than I've ever seen them. Of course, I realize—I'm not the only one who knew Jim—the real Jim, not Death's imitation—when he was alive. Sherlock is being confronted with Moriarty, his greatest enemy, the man who killed him. In all ways, I suppose—Death was his murderer just as much as Jim was, and yet, despite them both, here he stands now, tall and intact.

"Oh, I know many things," Death muses almost thoughtfully. He looks up, towards the light above us. Almost immediately, it begins to sputter, and the room is momentarily doused in darkness, before lighting up again. It wavers back and forth like this for several seconds, and my heart races faster and faster with each transition. "More than you ever give me credit for, really. No, it's obvious… it was all obvious. Your plan. You, and the Winchesters, and the angels, and those lovely young women… me and my brothers, you want to bring us down. To use us to defeat Lucifer."

"We're going to" is Sherlock's response. "It's not just about _trying. _We're going to do it."

"Oh… are you?" Death presses his lips together thinly, his mouth tilting down at the corners. "Well, I'm sure you absolutely believe that."

He steps closer to Sherlock, tilting his head up to regard the taller man slowly and coldly. Sherlock half-flinches, and, for one stunned moment, I almost think he's going to step back, but then he straightens, glaring fiercely at the entity taking the form of his arch-nemesis. "Sherlock Holmes," Death drawls, slowly and thoughtfully. "What a thing, to see you again… walking and talking and breathing…"

"I imagine you never expected me to escape," Sherlock says boldly, sounding almost proud. To any casual onlooker, he would seem to be absolutely impenetrable, proud and arrogant, but I can see past that, and it's painfully clear to me just how _scared _he is. Death and Moriarty—the two things that he never managed to get past, and now they're indistinguishable from one another. Of course, this isn't Jim, not really—not even the vessel, if Cas is right and the Horsemen don't need to possess people to assume their forms. But his voice, his eyes… even though he behaves differently from the man I knew, he really could be the same person.

"Expected, no, certainly not. But it has happened before… Dean Winchester, the man that you've all decided to trust? He's been to Hell, himself. Sam, too. And yet they never volunteered to stand up against Death itself…" He looks rather self-satisfied, his lips curling into a tight smirk. "Though I'll confess that I'm not past a bit of intimidation, that seems a little over-the-top, don't you think? And yet you, Sherlock, you're not above all that, yourself. Hard as you try… Death is what scares you the most, isn't it? Death took John away from you…"

"Don't talk about John," Sherlock snarls. "You don't—"

"I don't _what, _exactly? I don't know him? I don't understand him? Because I do. More than you do, more than you did, more than you ever will. John Watson is mine, now. And you're going to be mine, too, sooner than you let yourself believe. You shouldn't even be so sure that you're going to make it out of _this _little misadventure alive. I'm always waiting, you realize. And when somebody has escaped me, I'm particularly eager to get them back."

I can hear Sherlock's breath escalate even from a few feet away, and I want to walk up to him, to offer him the comfort that he so clearly needs. And yet I don't dare—I don't want to interrupt this moment, this strange, crystallized moment between Sherlock and Death.

"I _will _get you back," the dark-eyed man promises, in an almost matter-of-fact way. His words are calm and even, and it's clear that he doesn't have so much as a smidgen of doubt concerning them. "Whether it be sooner or later, I will get you back, believe you me. But… why fear? You'll be able to see John again, don't you realize?" His eyes glimmer, then, with a depth that Jim's never came near to carrying, like they're tunnels, actual portals into some other world, some strange, alternate dimension full of ghosts and demons and shadows.

Sherlock doesn't speak, but just continues to stare as Death slowly steps away, his eyes swiping over the Doctor's and my own forms. He considers me for what seems to be a particularly long moment, and my heart freezes in my chest, but then he shrugs and moves over to the Doctor, watching him steadily.

"And another familiar face… Doctor," he muses softly. "Well, I do say familiar face, but it's changed so many times… this is your eleventh, isn't it?"

The Doctor tries to smile, ridiculously, and it slips off his features immediately. "You don't need to try and intimidate me, you know," he murmurs softly. "It's not going to work."

"_Not going to work, _really? As if I don't remember… those last words of yours, _I don't want to go, _and of course that was only one time… I can intimidate you easier than anything else in the whole world, Doctor. Everyone thinks you're something special, but are you really…? There used to be a whole race of men and women like you, you Time Lords. But now you're the only one left… now, _that _was a grand day for Death, all the Time Lords, all the Daleks. All gone. Torn apart, by each other, by themselves… by _you, _Doctor."

My chest twists in sympathy, but there's nothing I can do, even as tears visibly begin to coalesce in the Doctor's eyes, bright but unacknowledged.

"I didn't kill them," he insists, but something in his voice is broken, and I already know that he's lost this argument with Death, this fight with himself. "I did _not _kill them."

"Oh, but you did, Doctor. Trust me, I of all people would know…" Death tips his chin up and regards the Doctor like a work of art, as though he's considering where to make the next cut in a marble sculpture. And then that cut comes, in the form of words, as seemingly always—sharp, swift, precise. "You only get to cheat me twice more. Thirteen forms, that's what you all get. Thirteen. That number does have a bit of a reputation, doesn't it? To think where that might have come from…"

"Stop it !" the Doctor finally cries out, and he takes a step back, his face flushing and twisting into a reflection of what must be the true agony within. My lips part in desperation at my own helplessness as he stumbles backwards and crashes into the wall, bringing a shaking hand up to his mouth. I've never seen him like this—anything _near _this. The tears still haven't escaped his eyes, but he looks scared, absolutely and completely _terrified. _

"Stop it? But, Doctor, I'm never going to stop. You need to understand that… willingly entering the Apocalypse. You wanted to help the Winchesters, isn't that right? But they never come out on top. You've doomed yourself, and those around you. Sherlock, and Molly, and Gwen… and your own little companions. Amy and Rose… they're all so beautifully innocent, even after all they've been through. You know that. You're entirely aware of their ignorance, and you don't make a move to stop it, because you can't bear to see them _crack. _Like you—you cracked long, long ago, Doctor, and there's nothing you try harder to do than _cover it up._"

"_Stop._" I'm half-surprised to hear the word in my own voice, and my head is a mess—of fear, and confusion (_how does he knows about all of us, about what we're trying to do, that we were even coming here in the first place?_), but I push it aside, make myself walk over, stand between Death and the Doctor, look the former straight in his bottomless eyes, the eyes that used to belong to my boyfriend—the killer of whom I'm now defending.

"Just—just leave him alone, okay?" My voice sounds so small, after the low, strong tenor of Death's words, and I've never felt weaker—but, at the same time, it's as if I'm imbued with a ridiculous strength. I straighten up as high as I can and stare Death down, my fists balled at my sides. "He never did anything to you, and just because you may be the—the Grim Reaper, or… it doesn't mean that you can sink so low as to _bully _people, alright? You can t-take him when it's his time—well, I'm sure you will—and me, too, and Sherlock, and, well, all of us—but until then, can't you just leave us alone?"

My lungs shake in the aftermath of my quivering speech, and I try not to blink, to the point that moisture swells over my eyes. For a long, long moment, I think that I've done it, that I've shot Death down with my words, but then he speaks up, and it all crashes into pieces around me.

"Awfully brave of you, Molly, but don't you realize that _you're _the ones who sought _me _out?"

Then he's right up next to me, and his fingers—they're _cold, _colder than ice, closer to what liquid nitrogen must be like—grasp around my chin, sucking all the heat from it, leaving my skin burning and numb where his brushes against it. All I can see are the black, black eyes, and my head begins to spin rapidly, nausea pin-wheeling through my stomach. "You think you know me, Molly Hooper," he rasps, his breath weaving its way into my mouth. It's dry, cool, and tasteless as an autumn wind. "Because you work here, in this nest of mundane demises… you've never experienced truly _grand _deaths, have you? Well, that's soon to change… especially if you stay with the Doctor, and of course you will… though his wife is destined to be another, maybe I'll have to ensure that…"

I barely process anything he's saying—in fact, I really don't. Each word falls separately and distinctly into my ears, like I'm hearing a foreign language. One clear thought manages to work its way into my head, though, and I grasp onto it, holding it in place, using it as my rock.

"We need your ring," I say.

For the first time, Death _laughs—_and, God, it's chilling; if his voice is a breeze, then his laugh is a blizzard, and I feel as though I've just been completely frosted over. He steps back, releases my head, and raises his dark eyebrows in an action that might almost be patronizing.

"My _ring? _But I can't possibly do that, dear. It's a… prized possession, I'm afraid." His pale fingers move to run along the back of his other hand, and I see the ring wrapped around one—pure, almost dazzling silver, set with a square, misty white stone. There's an odd quality to the gem, almost like his eyes, but in the opposite way—an endless tunnel of pale cloudiness. "No, you may have gotten those from my brothers rather easily… but, well, they are the weaker of the four."

_Successfully? _Did the others—Dean and Cas, Rose and Amy, Sam and Gwen—did they _do _it?

"You can try and find a way to get it, of course." He extends the ringed hand, waving it in front of my nose tauntingly. "Go on, take a swipe… but the fact of the matter is that I'm really not willing to lend it out."

I'm nowhere near 'taking a swipe.' I have absolutely zero doubt that he wouldn't hesitate to crush my existence if I did so, and besides, I'm too paralyzed with fright to even consider moving my hand enough to grip the jewelry, much less wrench it off his hand.

"There you go. Nice and tame, what an attitude… no, I'm not giving you the ring, you pathetic mortals." He steps back even farther, so that he can survey all of us equally. I feel the Doctor come up behind me, and his fingers wrap around my wrist—without even thinking, I squeeze back, as hard as I possibly can, until I practically lose the feeling in my hand. He's here, he's something to hold onto, something material—and, knowing that Death is across the room, it suddenly strikes me how fragile it all is. How the Doctor could be wrenched away from me in the briefest second. And I want more than anything to throw my arms around him, to cover him and protect him and defend him—but I can't. Nothing can save him from Death; nothing can save any of us from Death, or from its decisions.

"You _can _still defeat Lucifer, if only you use your imagination," Death continues, beginning to pace back and forth, reaching a wall and looping around again. "Gabriel's instructions are certainly the _easiest _way… the least costly way… but not the only one, no. Oh, Gabriel… he was quite something. Now, _that's _an example of a beautiful death, but you never got to see it… none of you, not even Sam."

_Sam was devastated, though. You took away one of the only things in the world that he had to hold onto. _

"That boy never did have luck. Jessica, Madison… the names won't be familiar to any of you, of course. I could try to hit a bit closer to the mark, though… Rory Williams is certainly a familiar face to me. River Song… the Master…"

The Doctor's breath stops behind me. _The Master? River Song? _I don't recognize the names, but they clearly have a massive effect on him.

"And John, of course—"

"Why are you doing this?" the Doctor cuts in, almost desperately. "What do you gain by… by saying all of these things? If you won't give us the ring, then just _leave, _will you?"

The words don't sound like him, and, perhaps for that reason, they resonate with me more deeply than any of his others. He's stripped down to his essence, right now, and the only thing that he can even think about accomplishing is escaping Death, moving on, getting away.

"Gain? Oh, I'm not trying to _gain _anything, believe you me. Only stating a fact—_all _of you are within my grasp. I can take any of you. All of you, at the flick of a switch, the blink of an eye. And I will. Don't overestimate your importance, and definitely do not overestimate the time you have left… I'll be seeing you soon, darlings. _Very _soon, in a couple of cases."

A surge of hot nausea rolls through me again at the exact same time that Death vanishes. And yet he barely even disappears—more accurately, he's there one moment and entirely gone the next, leaving me to stare with eye-singeing intensity at the bare space before me.

"Oh my God," I whimper, my head dropping as the tears pricking at my eyes finally take shape and begin to course down my cheeks. It's too much—all too much. Jim being gone, Jim being _Death, _and Death being here, talking to me, threatening me… my throat aches. "Oh—oh my God, oh, God, oh God."

The Doctor wraps an arm loosely around my shoulder, but he doesn't say anything, and neither does Sherlock. Even as I make the most noise that I have in the past hours, they're perfectly silent, their heads hanging the same way as mine. All of us have the same thing ringing through our bones—defeat. Though Death said that the others succeeded, that War, Famine, and Pestilence's rings have been taken, it doesn't matter, not really. They're useless without the final stitch to bind them together, and we haven't managed to acquire it. Minutes pass by, and, still, nobody talks. I don't make any attempt to pierce the silence, either. I suppose it's alright, really, for us all to have a while, however short, to process everything. Process the fact that we don't have the ring, that Death is gone, and our last hope with it.

_We failed._


	19. Chapter 18: Dean Winchester

**Thanks to** _azebra117_

**Disclaimer** ___I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Dean Winchester

I breathe underwater  
It's all in my hands  
But what can I do?  
Don't let it fall apart  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

The desert is freezing cold at night, a jarring contrast to its heat during the daytime. Stretches of silver sand fade into the distance, marred here and there by the tangled growth of some skeletal cactus or tumbleweed. The place looked ghostly enough during the day, but now it's downright spooky, and the occasional skeletal figure of a red-hand on the horizon does nothing to help with the creep factor.

"You're shivering," Cas murmurs, laying a hand on my arm. I hesitate, glancing warily over at him. The last thing I need is for him to be worried about my well-being right now—we have way more important things to be focused on, and I'm too concerned about him to afford it being mutual.

"I'm fine," I insist. But it's clear from the look in his deep blue eyes that he has no patience for what's obviously a lie on my part. He pulls his trench coat off of his shoulders, exposing the battered suit underneath that I'm so unused to seeing. Before I can protest, he wraps it around me, over the thin T-shirt that I have on. My jacket is back in War's cabin, where we left it when we hastily departed the place. Even though she was gone for the time being, it wasn't like Cas had killed her, and we weren't about to hang around and see when she would come back. Just because she didn't have her ring anymore didn't mean that the Horseman—Horsewoman?—was any less capable of ripping us to shreds.

So we headed out to the desert, instead, hoping that we'd be able to catch the Doctor. He promised to come back to the place where he dropped us off in two-hour increments, and that's where we're going now. Unfortunately, the haste shared between us means that my leather jacket is currently draped over War's bed.

"Thanks," I mumble awkwardly, staring down at the long coat dangling near my legs. It looks weird on me—and he looks strange without it, too. But it's warm, and it smells like him, so I decide not to complain.

"I can go back and retrieve the jacket, if you wish," he says for probably the fiftieth time, his eyes wide with concern. "I know that you have some attachment to it—"

"Stop, okay?" I implore. "I know you're still weak from what Lucifer did—okay, maybe not _weak,_" I concede when he begins to shake his head, "but at least not up to full power. We can grab it once we have the TARDIS, once this crap is over. Alright?"

He opens his mouth—whether to agree or object, I don't know—but any potential words are cut off by the unmistakable groaning of the TARDIS. I straighten up and look around, my eyes widening in surprise. _Where the hell is it? _"This isn't where we're supposed to meet up with him, is it?" I ask in surprise.

"No… we have at least a half mile farther to go," Cas says, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

But it's definitely the TARDIS, solidifying before us. Its familiar bulky blue form is both comforting and unnerving, silhouetted against the starry sky, and it's with no small amount of trepidation that I walk up to it, making sure to keep a protective hand around Cas's wrist. I'm only about a foot away from the door when it bursts open—I jump back, raising my free hand in defense, but then Amy steps out, looking just as confused as I surely do.

"Dean?" she questions, frowning slightly. "Cas?"

"Amy," I reply, nodding and lowering my hand. "What are you doing here? Where's the Doctor?"

"You mean you don't know, either?" She bites her lip in concern, glancing back and forth as if expecting to see the Doctor pop out of the sandy ground. "He's not here—the TARDIS just flew itself to Rose and me, it appeared without any sort of pilot—"

"Wait, _what? _How does that even work?" I demand, confusion filling my brain in a thick haze. The TARDIS _flew itself? _It's like any other craft, right? Doesn't it need someone in charge of it? Or is the thing actually sentient?

"I don't know! But we got in, and then it took off and brought us to Gwen and Sam, and now… here." She shrugs, as if to convey that she finds the concept as ridiculous as I do. "And I guess this is the last place, so… maybe it'll take us to the others after this."

"Maybe," I echo, but I can't quite bring myself to believe it. The Doctor must be in trouble. That's the only reason why the thing would bother to fly itself, isn't it? We had a plan; there was no reason for the stupid time machine to start freaking out and buzzing around wherever the hell it pleased.

"D'you have War's ring, then?"

"Yeah." My hand slips into my jeans pocket, under Cas's coat, and wraps around the circle of metal. It's alarmingly warm against my finger—almost too hot, in fact, and I pull away quickly. "We've got it."

"Alright, great. Come on in, then."

I glance towards Cas before stepping forwards, into the TARDIS. It looks the same as always—nothing particularly suspicious—but it has me undeniably on edge. I take a deep breath and look around. Like Amy said, everyone else is here—Rose, Gwen, Sam. At the sight of my brother, I cross the room hastily, still pulling Cas with me.

"Hey," I greet him as soon as I come to a halt. Gwen's standing uncomfortably close to him, but I try my best to ignore her. "How'd it go?"

"Well enough." A tight smile. "I think we saved this one kid's life, so that's good."

"If this whole thing works out, you'll be saving a lot more than one kid's life," I point out, almost gently. His smile widens at that, ever so slightly, and it's clear that we're both thinking the same thing—even if I haven't forgiven him for starting the Apocalypse, even if I never _will, _we're still working towards the same goal, working together, and I'm not going to let either of us forget that.

"Dean," Cas speaks up from behind me. I turn around, trying to ignore the girlishly tender squeeze around my heart when I lay eyes on the angel, who looks ridiculously small without his coat. Right, the coat—I'm still wearing it. I strip it off hurriedly and hand it over, coaching my features into an expression halfway between offhand and apologetic.

"Sorry—here you go."

He takes the coat, but his eyes don't move from me. He's watching me with an alarming level of intensity, and I almost feel like I'm being X-rayed—I want to step back, but can't really do so without colliding with Sam and Gwen.

My eyebrows drift upwards as he remains silent for several more seconds. "Um, dude, you okay?"

He breaks the stare, pulling the coat on thoughtlessly and gazing at a point over my shoulder. "It's nothing," he mutters, his voice even lower than usual, and I decide not to question it.

"O-kay, then. Amy, didn't you say—?"

It's like the TARDIS has been waiting for the cue of my words, because it suddenly begins to creak and groan—like Amy said, without any apparent control. Everyone's standing several feet away from the console, but it's moving anyways. The whooshes, noisy at first, eventually calm down to a steady thrum that I recognize as indicating our position to be an indefinable point in the time-space continuum. Or some science-y shit like that. I think I'm getting a bit better at the lingo—being around Sam helps with that.

"This isn't what it did before," Rose points out, her eyes wide and aggravated. Amy growls and frustration and begins to pace, while Sam shifts and sighs.

"What are we supposed to do now, then?" I ask dubiously.

"The TARDIS is in control of itself now." Amy seems to be speaking aloud, moving from the console to the railing around the room's border and back again. "So it must have some sort of plan, and it's trying to get us to follow it. First, all of us were supposed to come together—I guess the Doctor and Sherlock and Molly must be…" She takes a deep breath, apparently shoving down any emotion that rises with her own words. "Occupied, somehow. So what do we do? We can't open the Cage without all four rings, Gabriel said so! And Death's is probably the most important, too…"

"But we need to lure Lucifer in the first place, anyways," Rose reminds her. "There's probably a way to do that, don't you think? Some obvious way…"

We're all left standing in silence once more. We could really use Sherlock's brain right now, I figure—

"Sherlock," I say suddenly. "That's it—we need Sherlock to open up, let Lucifer in. He'll be able to detect that anywhere, right? But we don't _have _Sherlock, that's kind of the point, so…"

I watch as both Amy's and Rose's eyes, hazel and dark brown, rise over my shoulder. And I know exactly what they're looking at.

"Hell no." I raise a defensive arm over Sam, shaking my head rapidly. "We're not—no. If this goes wrong… we can't afford for this to go wrong, okay? We're not going to have him—_no!_"

"Lucifer doesn't even _want _Sam anymore, does he?" Gwen points out desperately. She seems just as alarmed at the prospect of Lucifer taking over Sam as I am, and I take a deep breath. Cas will defend us, too, surely he will. And that's half the group already. They won't let this happen.

"It might be our only chance," Sam murmurs. His own voice is low and flat, and it's so damn _stupid _that I turn around, anger encompassing my features.

"Like hell it's our only chance!" I snarl at him furiously. "Listen, Sam, you're not even a _part _of this anymore! We're more of an annoyance to Lucifer and Michael than anything else, got that? If he hears that you're open to him, he'll probably just _laugh!_"

"But even I'm better than the vessel he has now," Sam insists. "Even if I'm not where he's settling permanently, that doesn't mean he won't take advantage of the opportunity!"

"And what am I supposed to do then? Push you into the damn Cage? Because I am _not _doing that, Sam! I am _not losing you again!_"

"Don't be overdramatic!" Both of us are yelling now, and I don't know if the others are shocked—my attention is completely, entirely focused on Sam and Sam alone.

"Me?" I spit. "_I _shouldn't be overdramatic? You've sacrificed enough, damn it! And if you say one single thing about _deserving _this, like it's fair payback for starting the stupid fucking Apocalypse—"

"So what if I do say it? It's _true, _Dean! The world's better off without me!"

All I can do to that is gape, stare in utter disbelief. _The world is better off without me. _Where does he even pull this shit from? "Right, so now you're going to be suicidal. No. _No. _I am not doing this. None of us are doing this. Nobody is going to die!" I shout, my voice echoing through the ceiling of the TARDIS. "_Nobody, _do you understand me? I am _sick _of everyone I care about dying. And you're a selfish bastard, Sam, if you're going to step out just like that. I need you. _Gwen _needs you!" Her eyes widen at this, and I think she might even flush a bit, but I don't care enough to be sure. If she honestly thinks that her infatuation with him is a secret at this point, then she's just stupid.

"The world needs Lucifer gone more than either of you need me." It's clear that the words hurt him, but he speaks them with a steady voice and a powerful, determined glint in his eye.

I am fucking _done _with all of this. So I lay out my last card, yell it into his face, putting all the emotion behind it that I possibly can. _"Do you think this is what Gabriel wanted?" _

He pales immediately and steps back, like I've physically struck him. I almost regret my words—almost—but not quite. Anything that'll stop me from losing Sam again is worth it, worth it a million times over. I'm breathing heavily, my shoulders heaving, and so is he. Slowly, my vision widens to allow the others in, and I see that Gwen, Amy, and Rose are all standing in a stunned silence. The very air of the TARDIS seems to hum with tension, and no one makes a move until Cas steps forward and lays a hand on my shoulder.

I spin around, ready to snap at him, too, to tell him to leave me alone, that he doesn't understand Sam's and my relationship, that he never will. But the sight of his eyes, so wide and deep and _so fucking blue, _seems to blow the words right out of me. He gazes plaintively at me, and his face is probably too close for platonic comfort, but I can't quite bring myself to care.

"Dean," he breathes. "You need to calm down. We need you more than ever, now. Don't let anger overtake you."

It strikes me suddenly that I really, really want to kiss him again.

And it's pretty ridiculous to think that, considering that, like he's saying, we have big issues to worry about right now, and my head should be fully in the game. But I'm still buzzing with anger and desperation, so I allow myself that one little indulgence—nothing long, not nearly as drawn-out as the actions between us back at War's cabin. But I do lean in, tilt my head up and press my lips to his forehead, raising one hand to gently touch my fingers to his jaw. He stiffens, but only slightly, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a long moment, savoring the feel of his skin underneath my lips, trying to clear my head.

I pull back fairly quickly. I don't want to linger right now—well, okay, fine, I absolutely want to, but I can't. We need to focus on Lucifer, on a way to bring him in without harming Sam. I reach out and take Cas's wrist again, as a way to steady myself with him while still keeping my mouth and my thoughts free. I make sure not to look at anyone else's expressions—I don't want to see them, right now, don't really care about whatever their reactions might be to what I just did.

Gwen is the first to speak up, breaking the slightly stunned silence. "I think… I think I might have an idea," she says, perhaps a bit too loud to be completely casual. "Lucifer's working with this Moran man, right? So what if we abduct Moran? That could pull Lucifer to us, if they're properly connected…"

"Yes, alright!" Sam latches on immediately. The others join together in a chorus of nods and agreement, and I let go of a breath I hadn't realized myself to be holding. So they're not going to question Cas and me right now. Good.

"Just one problem," Amy points out. "None of us know how to fly the TARDIS, do we? I mean, I think it has a way to track people down, but only the Doctor and River have really got any idea how to operate it… well, River _did._" She swallows, and I decide not to question the unfamiliar name. River—probably another deceased friend of theirs.

"I know a bit," Rose murmurs, frowning slightly in the direction of the console. "I mean, not enough to get very far, but from what I've seen over the years…"

"We can give it a try," Amy agrees dubiously. Before any of us can say more, though, the TARDIS begins once more to move on its own—my stomach lurches in the familiar discomfort at what can technically be considered aerial flight, and my grip on Cas's wrist tightens to something that's probably incredibly painful. Everyone else looks around in slightly nervous wonder, but I'm mostly focused on terror. I've been growing more adjusted to the TARDIS's piloted liftoffs, and I was just too shocked and confused when it took off from the desert. But now the full impact of the situation hits me—we're rocketing through time and space at what's probably billions and billions of miles an hour, with _nobody controlling our ship._

Nausea rears up in my stomach, suddenly and fiercely, and I find myself stumbling slightly sideways, lightheadedness flooding my skull. "Shit," I choke under my breath, trying desperately to bring some reason into my mind. _Nothing's going to—come on—what's the worst that can happen?_

_Oh, nothing huge, idiot—just, I don't know, crashing followed by spontaneous implosion? _

My palms are sweating like hell. White bursts behind my eyes and fragments my vision, and I feel like I might be about to start screaming, but I keep it bottled down inside of me, inside my lungs. _Hell, hell, hell—_

Then Cas's voice comes, piercing through the blurry veil of sickness swathing me—"Dean, are you alright? Dean, listen to me—_Dean…_"

Every time he says my name, it's like a bolt straight to my heart, sending vibrations of electricity through from the puncture point, slowly, _slowly _calming me down. I force myself to breathe, and realize that I'm clinging to him with an iron freaking death grip—the tips of my own fingers have gone numb. I don't let go, though, just force myself to breathe. Fucking plane-phobia—"Shit, I'm sorry," I mumble, noticing slowly that the TARDIS has slowed into steadiness again. "Did anyone—am I…"

"You tensed up, and your hold grew incredibly painful." His stare is even, his words softly concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Flying… _fucking _flying," I growl, and it's only then that I realize how most everyone else is gone—Sam and Gwen have drifted to the other side of the TARDIS, where they seem to be conversing intently with Amy and Rose. I force myself to let go of Cas, wiping my palms on my jeans and repeatedly cursing just about everything.

"Flying in the TARDIS has never had an effect on you before," Cas objects as I start over towards the others.

"First time for everything, right? I'm just on edge." I don't want to linger on the topic, and, to my relief, he finally seems to pick up on that, going silent. I reach the others just as Sam and Gwen are turning towards the door.

"Where are you going?" I question, raising my eyebrows.

"We think that the TARDIS has probably—well, hopefully—brought us to Moran," Sam explains. "If it heard our plan—"

"Wait, hold up." I lift a hand and scowl at him disbelievingly. "If it _heard _our _plan?_ It's a machine. A _machine._"

"Actually," Amy speaks up, "the TARDIS does have some consciousness of its own."

"Some—_what?_" Now I'm thoroughly alarmed. I glance around at the curving golden walls of the TARDIS—_consciousness? _So the thing is alive? That's… weird. Weirder than just about anything else we've experienced so far. "Come on, though, it's a _phone box. _How can a phone box be… alive?"

"Don't question it," Rose advises, "but it is. And she's brought us places before, where we _needed _to be, even if we didn't necessarily want it. So… it makes sense that she's taken us to Moran."

There's really nothing that I can say to defy that. "…Fine, but be careful. The guy _is _an assassin, after all."

"We'll be fine," Gwen insists, a bit overly defensive, if I do say so myself. I frown at her, but she just turns and pushes the door open, Sam filing after her. I move to go with them, but then Castiel settles his hand on my shoulder.

"Wait," he says quietly.

I glance back. "What?"

"It'll be better if only a few go," he offers by way of explanation. "The TARDIS could have dropped us off anywhere, and we need to be cautious. Large numbers are impractical."

I want to argue—I want to go with people, not stay behind and be completely ignorant to whatever might be going on—but it's true that he has a point. I sigh and settle back, watching with a hint of frustration as Rose exits and the door closes behind her.

"Besides," Amy adds sarcastically, folding her arms, "someone needs to look after the pregnant woman, right?"

"You don't need anyone to look after you," I shoot back, almost playfully. She grins and rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, try telling that to Rose."

We continue to make lighthearted banter, Cas standing silently beside us, but my eyes keep flicking back towards the closed door of the TARDIS.

_There could be anything out there. All of them—Sam, Gwen, Rose—they have no idea what they're up against._

Of course, maybe I'm overdramatizing it. For all I know, the TARDIS could have conveniently dropped us in Sebastian Moran's bathroom stall. But I'm tense, anyways, and I stay that way until they come back.

* * *

Their return, as it is, doesn't come until an hour later. Amy and I have long since lapsed into silence, and we're lounging on the seats, gazing vaguely at the console and trying not to worry about Sam and Rose. _Maybe the TARDIS is just malfunctioning. Maybe it didn't take us to Moran, after all, and they're out there on some sort of wild goose chase… _

Just then, the door bangs open with an alarming amount of violence. Amy and I spring to our feet, and Cas, standing at my side, snaps his gaze over towards it. Rose stumbles in first, her hair a mess and her eyes bright with energy. She barely springs aside from the doorway in time for a second person to be pushed through—I recognize him immediately, and my stomach snarls with heated fury.

The man who nearly killed me outside the bar looks battered, far less fit compared to when I last saw him. His hair is overgrown, and a stubbly beard encompasses his thin, scarred jaw. Sam doesn't seem to have any problem whatsoever with forcing Moran to his knees, and Gwen quickly closes the door behind them.

"Let's go," Rose says, to nobody in particular. The TARDIS immediately takes off again, and my whole body tenses up, but the combination of Cas's hand, swiftly on my shoulder, and my boiling anger at Moran keeps me rooted down. The blonde assassin stays kneeling on the ground, his head hanging, and I can barely see his dark eyes glinting up at me through his shaggy hair.

As soon as the TARDIS lands—God knows where—I pull free of Cas and move over to Moran, crouching down so that I can stare straight at him. "So," I growl softly, locking eyes, "what a surprise, seeing you again."

He doesn't reply, just scowls more deeply.

I nod slowly. "Right. Strong and silent, I'd almost forgotten. Well, listen up, asshat. I'm done being patient with your crap. So we're going to take you outside, to wherever this machine brought us—and it chooses well, let me tell you that. We're going to tie you up, nice and tight, and then you're going to call in your boss. Understand?"

"Lucifer isn't stupid enough to be called in by such a petty trap," he spits. His Scottish accent is thicker than ever now, contorting his words. "You underestimate him."

_Sure we do. _I desperately want to tell Moran how it's the other way around—Lucifer was the one to underestimate us—but I spew out a string of lies instead. "Yeah, sure. Listen up—we aren't trapping anyone. This is completely honest, understand? We're ready. Uncle, and all that. We've got Lucifer's vessel—Sherlock Holmes—we've got him, and we're ready to let him in."

"You have Holmes?" His eyes flame suddenly, with an almost alarming intensity. But I don't let my surprise show.

"Yeah, we've got Holmes. But your boss isn't going to be able to ride him until you call him down."

"If the vessel is truly ready, he doesn't need me to call him," Moran hisses. His breath stinks of cigarette smoke and alcohol, and I wince, sitting back a bit. "If you truly had Holmes, then you would have no use for me."

"Don't question the way that we go about our business," I snap. "The best thing you can do for yourself and your boss is to follow our orders. So get ready to call him in." Without another word, I stand, looking over the others. I try not to let my gaze linger on Cas, but it does so anyways, a fact which I hope the others don't notice. "Let's take him outside. There's no way we're gonna be able to call ourselves up a fallen angel with all these scribbles." I gesture to the door, still glimmering with the silver symbols from where Sam and Gwen painted it.

"Right," Gwen agrees. Wordlessly, she and Rose take Moran by the shoulders, and Sam spots them carefully as they lead him outside. Amy, Cas, and I all exchange a mutual glance, then follow them.

It's nighttime outside, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. But as soon as they do, it strikes me that we're in the middle of the fucking Grand Canyon.

At least, I think so. It must be. We're at the base of an impossibly deep stone valley. It's perhaps a quarter mile wide, and bluish walls of rock rise up on either side of us, stretching for what seems like forever until they finally break to make way for the starry night sky. It's pitch-black, but bedazzled with bright, twinkling points of light, which cast a silver glow over the whole scene.

It's silent save the low, minor whoosh of a breeze against the canyon walls. I glance over at Cas and Amy, who look equally shocked. "Why d'you imagine the TARDIS would choose here, of all places?" I ask under my breath.

"It is a place of great angelic power," Castiel murmurs. "These walls… they were not sculpted by natural force alone."

I whistle lowly. It's a pretty remarkable thought—that all of this magnificence could be created by the angelic beings that, to be entirely honest, have seen rather unimpressive when we really met up with them. Gabriel, for example—the friggin' _archangel Gabriel _wasn't anything particularly special to behold.

Sam and Gabriel—

But no, no, _hell _no, I'm not going to think about that, right now. I'm too busy pacing over to where Sam is forcing Moran to the ground, a gun—presumably taken from the assassin himself—pointed towards the latter's head.

"So," I say, folding my arms and regarding him coolly. "The easy thing to do is call your buddy in right now, as we previously discussed. Or I could start getting the knives out."

"Torture?" Moran sounds far from afraid—almost entertained by my threat. "Oh, you can _try, _Winchester. But you won't. You won't be able to bring yourself to, not really."

Anger flares inside of me—defiance. "Oh, yeah? Is that so? You'll be singing a different tune when you're choking on your own blood, hotshot."

He just stares past me, almost boredly. Sam shoots me an anxious look, and I shrug, gesturing that he keep the gun steady. I'll have to figure this out on my own—but, no, there's nothing to figure out, is there? We need Lucifer to be here, and if the only way to do that is to torture Seb Moran, then, well, bring it on. I can do it. God knows I have experience in torture—well, more precisely, Alistair knows, or _knew, _back before Sam killed him. There's no reason why I should shy away now, just because I don't _like _it. The fate of the whole world depends on this.

"I'll start light," I breathe. I instinctively reach into my jacket for a knife, only to remember that it's still lying back in War's cabin. However, I'm barely given time to be irritated by this, because then Castiel is at my side, pressing a wickedly sharp, long dagger into my palm. It doesn't take much to recognize that it's the exact same one Lucifer had used to carve _him _up—Gabriel's blade.

I stare at him in amazement. "How'd you—?"

"He was careless." Cas dips his head, looking almost shamed. "I… I wasn't powerful by the end of his torture, but I managed to take the blade from him before I…"

"Passed out." I shake my head in wonder. "Thanks, Cas. You really are…" I spend a moment searching for a word, then shrug. "Remarkable."

A practically invisible smile touches his lips—it's small, shy, and utterly freaking adorable. "Thank you."

I flash him a swift grin before turning back to Moran, the knife in hand. I barely have the chance to consider where to target first, though, when the assassin suddenly springs up—he's fast, fucking _fast, _and even Sam's immediate gunshot only skates off his shoulder, resulting in a light spray of blood but no real damage. Before I can even process what's going on, the Scottish man has one hand clenched around my brother's neck, the other knocking his hand aside and snatching the gun out of it. I raise the knife, ready to slash out defensively, but then Moran springs out of my reach and Sam's alike, the pistol clenched in both of his hands, its nose pointed straight at me.

"Sorry, Winchester," he growls, not even slightly out of breath. "But cutting me up isn't going to get you anywhere, and I might as well save you some time."

I duck away, but there's no reason to—he's turning the gun so that it's pointed not at me, but instead himself. For a single splintered instant, I think he might be smiling—it's the first time I've ever seen the expression on him—but then his finger flickers over the trigger, there's an explosive bang, and he's gone.


	20. Chapter 19: Amy Pond

**Thanks to** _azebra117_

**Disclaimer** ___I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

Amy Pond

Oh, your soul is on fire  
A shot in the dark  
What did they aim for  
When they missed your heart?  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

My eyes fly wide open in shock as Moran folds backwards to the ground—I rip away before I can get a good look at his head, but a gag still rises in my throat from the brief glimpse that I did manage to get. Never before have I seen someone off themselves with a gun to the chin, and God—it's not pretty.

Rose gasps, and that's the only sound for a long few moments—everyone seems paralyzed, unable to believe what just happened. Our only connection to Lucifer, one of the men that we've been working against so intensely all this time, is gone—just _gone, _voluntarily, in a snap.

_"Damn it!" _Dean bellows into the night, suddenly and fiercely. I flinch and reach out reflexively for Rose—she returns my grip, clutching my hand tightly. My breath is coming quickly as Dean whips around, the angel blade clutched in his fist, and begins to pace back and forth, kicking up patterns of dust from the stone floor, which is dark purple in the moonlight.

"Dean," Sam says, his voice amazingly even considering the stress of the circumstances.

_"No!" _His older brother rounds on him, teeth bared and eyes blazing, his face flushed with frustration and rage. "I told you, Sammy, we are _not _risking you for this. There is no way in hell. I won't be able to bear this, and your archangel boyfriend probably would've been friggin' devastated, too, though I can't imagine him showing any sort of—" Dean stops, suddenly. He's noticed the same thing that I just did—at the word _archangel, _something changes in Sam's face, so that his forehead unfurrows and a determined glint comes to his darkened eyes. "Oh, is _that _it, then?" he barks, his shoulders heaving. "That's _it—_you _want _to die, don't you, you selfish son of a bitch? You think that if you kick the bucket, you'll be able to see Gabriel again!"

"Dean, no," Sam insists, but the lie is just as transparent to Dean as it is to me and everyone else. "That's not it at all…"

"Really? Well, I've got some news for you, Sammy—when angels die, they don't go to Heaven, idiot. Or to Hell, or anywhere that you'd end up if Lucifer ganked your ass. They're just _gone, _okay? Gabriel's gone, and he's not coming back, so you'd better not decide to check out in the meantime, or I swear to God—or, fuck, I swear to whatever even matters at this point—that I will never forgive your memory, do you understand me?"

I expect Sam to be silenced, or at least calm down slightly. But he seems to be getting more and more upset—unlike Dean's explosion, his anger works in a slow simmer, burning from the inside out. "Who says Lucifer would even kill me? I might live. I'd be in the Cage, if everything works, but does that even matter, really? Did we honestly ever have a better plan, Dean? Or were you just going to let Sherlock die? That was _your _brilliant idea, after all—your genius way to lure Lucifer here in the first place!"

Dean sputters for a moment, then shakes his head violently. "Look, I've only ever been doing what Gabriel said! He said get the rings, so we got the rings. He said to trap Lucifer, and now we're going to trap Lucifer! It's pretty fucking simple, Sammy—"

"There's nothing simple about condemning people to death. You can believe me when I say that this is _not _what Gabriel intended to happen." He lifts his chin, and I see pain flash clearly in his eyes when he speaks the name, but it also seems to fuel his determination, prompt him to continue with growing strength. "He wouldn't have wanted anyone to die unnecessarily. But he expected us to be smart, okay? He knew we could find a way to get Lucifer here, in his _regular _vessel." His voice is slowly growing louder and louder, until he's shouting, his words echoing through the entire canyon. I suddenly realize with a dull throb of shock that there are tears sparkling on his cheeks—I don't know when they got there, but they seem to be everywhere, reddening his eyes and slipping off his chin. "So that's what we're going to do, understand? You're right, I don't need to die, and Sherlock doesn't either, if he's still alive even now. We're going to do this without murdering anybody, like we're meant to. _None of us are going to play God!_"

The last word echoes off the massive stone walls for several long seconds, and Sam's chest heaves as he glares at each of us, as if daring us to challenge the tears or the passion in his voice. None of us do, not even Dean, who seems almost to wilt. I take a deep breath, and I feel Rose's exhalation in the release of tension in her fingers. Rather than doing the same, I grip hers tighter, more firmly. Her presence is a huge comfort right now, and I intend to savor every second of it.

"We need to make a plan, then," Gwen murmurs, her voice dropping into the silence.

I'm halfway through nodding in agreement when the pain comes, out of absolutely nowhere—a fierce, powerful stabbing that seems to encompass my stomach and my gut both at once. I gasp—the noise is oddly silent in my buzzing ears—and my legs seem to disappear from under me, so that I'm falling forwards, towards the ground. My arms have gone numb—I'm just bracing myself for the impact when Rose's hands are on my shoulders, holding me up, helping me into a kneeling position. Every muscle in my body is shaking, and I feel a bursting sensation, a release of pressure somewhere below my stomach. It's not quite painful—just odd, airy.

_"Amy!"_ I suddenly realize that Rose is shouting, half-screaming, that her eyes are wide and frantic and boring intently into my vague, hazy ones. "Amy, are you alright? Amy, say something, please!"

"I—I think…" Then the pain comes again—not quite as overwhelming this time, and I'm able to detect the muscles it centers around, just about the area where—

"Oh my God," I choke, and, practically before I've forced out the last syllable, Gwen is at my side, crouching and watching carefully with wide, dark eyes.

"It's pre-labor—I think her water just broke," she declares. "The baby's coming."

"Oh, please, no," Rose breathes, "not here, not now…"

I barely hear their voices. I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head frantically back and forth as nausea courses through me. Then I feel warm hands on my cheeks, holding me still, and lips pressing against my forehead.

"Amy," Rose implores, her mouth moving frantically against my skin. "I need you to hold back. Just a little longer—please, I know you can do this, please, please, you're strong, you're so strong… I love you, you can do this, I love you, I love you…"

Her words bounce off of me. The very idea of resisting is completely ridiculous. I need to get on my back, horizontal—I need to be ready for the baby to come out—no, but how long does labor usually last? Hours, doesn't it? Fragmented recollections dash about my mind, unable to form themselves into any sort of whole. I don't know—God, I just don't know, I can't think of anything. My mind is entirely consumed by the bizarre tremors running through me.

_"Amy, please!"_

No—Rose. Rose is asking me to hold on, and I have to—there's no way I could do this for anyone but her, but it _is _her, and I need to… I bite down hard on my lip to keep from shrieking at the aching pain, and I feel blood spring out under my teeth. It's the greatest effort I've ever had to apply, but I can keep my muscles still—or at least near still, thought they still twitch and spasm with the need to push.

"Yes, you're doing perfectly, please, babe, you've got this, alright?" Her hand is knotted in my hair, hot skin brushing against my jaw. I can barely breathe. But I keep forcing myself to, dragging gasp after gasp through my bloodstained, chapped lips, and, slowly, everything comes back into place—Gwen and Rose are knelt over me, but Dean, Cas, and Sam seem distracted—the brothers staring at each other, and the angel at the ground.

It's then that I suddenly notice with a swerve of horror that the very earth underneath me is shaking—in the time it took for me to overcome the burst of contractions, something momentous has happened, or is about to happen, something that seems to be stirring the bones of the very planet.

"He's coming," Castiel murmurs, staring at the ground between his feet. As I watch in blurry horror, a thin crack appears between his feet—nothing huge, but somehow all the more ominous for its brevity, a hairline strand of darkness that hints at utter, unbound chaos. "And he's angry."

I know he's talking about Lucifer—clearly; there's no one else it could be. _The Devil. _Before, we were able to escape him—but then we had the Doctor, and the TARDIS. Now there's only the two hunters, the angel, Gwen, Rose, and me—and I, for one, am incapable of so much as standing up at the moment, let alone fighting Satan.

_What if this is it? _The thought hits me suddenly, out of nowhere. Last time I felt concern for my life was back on the planet with the dinosaurs, when we were up against Moriarty and the Master. And yet there was still something strangely reassuring about the Doctor's duplication, there—the knowledge that he, at least, was aware of the outcome… it helped. It gave me some sort of hope that it couldn't possibly all end there.

But now, here… nobody knows the result. Any given one of us could be dead by the end of this—hell, _all _of us could be, and not a single law of the universe in place could stop it.

"If he's coming, then we can stop him!" Dean insists desperately. "If he's in his vessel now—"

"Right, just as soon as we get the last damn _ring!_"

I can't tell if Sam is sarcastic or just desperate, but either way, he's right. Lucifer is going to be here soon, and we won't get anywhere without the ring of the final Horseman. My stomach jerks, and I force the muscles to hold themselves in place—I need to be present right now, aware, _useful. _What can we do? Get in the TARDIS, that's what needs to happen. Escape.

"We have to—to go," I insist, amazed at how clear my words are through my clenched teeth. "We can't stay here, we're—we're not ready for this… the TARDIS…"

"She's right," Rose agrees immediately, speaking up so that everyone can hear over the ever-growing rumble of the ground below us—the noise is swelling like an approaching earthquake. "This isn't the time to fight it out with Lucifer. We need the Doctor, and Sherlock and Molly—"

"The TARDIS brought us here, right?" Dean objects. "We're supposed to be here, dammit! This is our last chance!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Rose yells, and in her voice is venom of the sort that I've never heard from her before. It registers then, in a very distant corner of my mind, that the strange tone I'm sensing is _defensiveness—_over _me. _She's concerned, afraid of what will happen to me, to our baby if we stay here now. "Look at Amy! She can't do this right now, none of us can!"

"Fine, so take her, but I'm staying here!" Dean grips the knife in a fighting stance, his eyes scoping around the canyon as though searching for any sign of Lucifer. "Is anyone else with me?"

Sam and Cas each move towards him, and Rose lets out a wordless moan of desperation. But one of Gwen's arms loops under mine—_Gwen? Siding with Rose and me over Sam?_—and she whispers quickly into my ear.

"We're going to let them worry about that, alright? Now, you just keep breathing. We're going to take care of you right now, Amy. We'll get you into the TARDIS, and then you'll be able to have your baby, how's that? Everything's going to be just fine."

Her words really are soothing, and I find myself nodding, my eyes drifting over to the TARDIS.

But the TARDIS—

It's not there at all, or at least not for a moment, because then it _is, _fading into place, landing itself just where we left it parked—like, under the disguise of Lucifer's noise, it had decided to take a brief trip off. Confusion stabs at me, but it clears up as soon as the door opens—the TARDIS's job hadn't been done yet. She had more people to bring to us.

It's the Doctor, and, behind him, Sherlock and Molly.

They're here.

I half-laugh in euphoric relief—they have the ring, they must, and we'll be able to put all four together, and force Lucifer into the Cage without involving any vessels, and then—it'll be okay. Of course, I never should have lost faith in them. We're going to be able to do this, everything will be fine, and everybody will live.

But then the Doctor gets close enough for me to see his face, and all my hope is sucked away in a single moment.

Because he's defeated. Horribly, obviously defeated, something which is expressed in his dark eyes and shadowed features.

_No. No. No. _I don't want to think about—_can't _think about—the implications of such an expression, especially on a face that's usually blindingly bright, but I'm not even given time to consider it, because then Dean notices the others, too, and he speaks up, quickly and harshly.

"Do you have the ring?"

For a long, long moment, the Doctor simply stares in silence. Then, slowly, his head shakes.

Dean swears, but it's soft, not infuriated. All of us are utterly numb. Our last hope—vanished as soon as it appeared. Sherlock and Molly, flanking the Doctor, appear equally horrorstricken, though it barely shows in the former's features, only his haunted eyes. The ground shakes more heavily than ever, and I let out a pathetic, unwilling groan—it's getting harder and harder to hold back the contractions, and, any time now, they're just going to take over, seize me again and render me oblivious to everything else around us.

"What the hell do we do now?" Sam demands. Practically as soon as the last word has left his mouth, Castiel's head snaps up, his eyes like blue fire, burning with sudden intensity.

"He's not in his vessel," the angel breathes.

_"What?" _Rose cries, her eyes widening like she can't tell whether to be horrified or excited. Both, probably—I'm definitely both, judging by the rapid hammering of my heart against my ribcage. "What do you mean, he's not…?"

"He's coming, Lucifer, he's… he's going to blind you… kill you if you don't let him in."

"But that doesn't make _sense!_" Sherlock spits in frustration, speaking up for the first time. "He wouldn't want to kill us, he still needs us… needs _me…_"

"And yet the rest of us are expendable," Cas finishes grimly.

I look back and forth wildly, fear clenching my chest. "Well—well, what are we waiting for, then?" I cry, the words scratchy in my dry throat. "We need to go, don't we?"

"Amy's right," Rose agrees immediately. "If you don't have the ring, let's get in the TARDIS—"

"Wait," Sherlock growls. There's an odd tone to his voice, strangely final, like he's made some massive decision. I look up to see that his pale eyes are fixated on Dean's hand, on the glimmering blade clenched between his fingers. "That knife…"

"Gabriel's," Dean confirms, waving it slightly. "Angel-killing."

A myriad of emotions flash over the detective's chiseled features—_real _emotions, of the sort that I've never seen on him before. Disbelief, hope, dread, regret, determination, each materializing only for a quarter second before fading into the next. Finally, his face hardens into definite resolution, and he lifts his chin, turning to stare at Castiel.

"You're an angel," he says. "So Heaven… Heaven exists."

Cas dips his head in confirmation. There's a quiet understanding in his dark eyes. "Yes. Heaven exists."

"John's there," Sherlock continues, barely audible, almost to himself.

"We need to _go!_" Rose insists, her stare flashing between the rest of them. Sam, Dean, and Gwen seem just as confused as the two of us, but Molly's eyes are wide in something different—something terrified—and the Doctor only seems more solemn than ever.

"Wait," the Doctor prompts, not looking away from Sherlock.

"John Watson is there," Castiel murmurs.

"If I were to—" Sherlock swallows—slowly, almost delicately—and speaks the next words with a cold precision. "If I were to go there, would I see him?"

"What—_no!_" Rose exclaims vehemently. I choke on my own cry of protest—what's he talking about? Sherlock can't die, he only just came back a few days ago—I'm not ready to lose him again, not so soon… none of us are. I twist my head towards the Doctor, seeking support, but he doesn't say a word, only sighs lowly. I've never seen him so utterly defeated, and I'm amazed by how absolutely lose it causes me to feel.

_"Would I see him?" _Sherlock repeats intently. He and Cas lock eyes, vivid azure to pale grey-green, for several long moments, then Cas speaks.

"It is… rare, for two people to share a Heaven. Generally, everyone will have their own version of it, but it's shared by some, by… the people that humanity categorizes as soulmates."

Sherlock doesn't speak, but nods slowly, almost thoughtfully. "I'll see him," he notes quietly, to himself. Then he raises his voice, and says his last words to Castiel. "You know what you have to do."

I'm utterly swamped by confusion and horror, and all I can think is _no—_whatever Sherlock's planning to do, he knows it's going to kill him, and I can't let that happen—even on the most ridiculously selfish, personal level, I _don't want to lose him. _I care about him, I realize—somehow, through all of this, I've really grown to care about him. My stomach twists at the revelation, something horribly bittersweet, and I hear Rose release a dry, coughing sob beside me. She wraps her arms around me and buries her face in my shoulder, but I can't look away.

The roar of the ground below us grows to a massive crescendo, one that shakes the walls of the canyon, causes the world's very foundation to shudder with power. Sherlock closes his eyes in an almost serene way, then throws his head back and raises his arms into the air, facing the star-laden sky.

_"Close your eyes!" _Castiel bellows.

I obediently squeeze them shut, feeling the power of Rose's shaking body wracking my spine. A bolt of noise, high and shrieking and utterly inhuman, pierces through the night, and even with my eyes scrunched tightly closed, I can still see a massive flare of blazing white light, singeing and dancing over my darkened vision. It's huge, powerful, and a surge of pure energy courses through me, adrenaline and excitement mixed with absolute awe. Heat flashes over my face, followed by a fierce, icy cold, and then nothing at all. Silence settles like a blanket, the light fading back to black, and I slowly, anxiously crack my eyes open, afraid of what I'm about to see.

Sherlock still stands, tall and proud—more so, in fact, than I've ever seen him before. As I stare on in horror, he slowly, thoughtfully raises one of his pale, slender hands, and looks over it, flexing each finger individually. Then he raises the same hand and runs it over his curly hair, a smirk quirking up the corner of his lips.

"Oh, isn't this nice?" he purrs as his head tilts slightly sideways. _"Much _more comfortable than poor old Nick… yes, this is perfect. The rebellious little brother, oh, how I know the feeling, Sherlock, dear…" He looks thoughtfully over each of us—Cas and Dean, standing close enough for their shoulders to brush, watching hard and stoically, then Rose, Gwen and I, gaping in unrestrained terror, and finally the Doctor, whose every muscle conveys absolute defeat.

"Now, no need to look so surprised," Lucifer chides through Sherlock's mouth; "you knew it was going to happen sooner or later, didn't you? Of course, I appreciate the effort with the Horsemen—yes, I heard about that, most admirable—but it was never going to work, not really. Still… excellent try. Very well-played, I'd say, from both sides. But now it's pretty clear that we've wrapped everything up, and it looks like I've come out on top, this time. So why don't you all take a seat, and I can tell you just how things are going to be from now on?"

"Not so fast," Castiel snarls.

Lucifer glances over his shoulder in surprise, just as the younger angel bolts forward, Gabriel's knife glimmering in his clutch. Before the Devil has time to so much as flinch, Castiel plunges the blade down, cleanly between Sherlock's ribs, piercing into what I'm sure must be the heart. Lucifer gasps and stiffens, an expression of shocked disbelief flashing over Sherlock's face.

Then, all at once, an immense white glow erupts like fire from his eyes and mouth, shooting into the darkness, and a shrieking howl emanates from him. It's bright enough to cause my hands to fly to my face and ears, but neither does a thing to block it. I squint my eyes open again, to see that the whole of the canyon seems to be flooded in silver coldness. Everyone's ducking away—Dean, the Doctor, Gwen, Molly, Rose—except for Castiel. His eyes are wider and brighter than ever, pure blue amidst the wash of pearly white, and the expression on his face is fiery, furious as he tenses his shoulders, throwing all of his weight upon the knife.

Lucifer sways slowly, like an ancient tree nearly felled, then gradually folds to his knees as Castiel wrenches the archangel's blade out of the Devil's chest, watching with eerily frosty triumph. The light and noise die away all at once, and then there's only starlight again—shining over the entire scene as everyone slowly moves their hands from their eyes and hears to stare in horrified wonder at the spectacle before them—Cas stares down at the body of his brother below him, fingers tight around the hilt of Gabriel's blade, his face entirely closed off from emotion. Sherlock's body lies sprawled on the violet-tinted stone, blood spreading like a vivid crimson flower over his suit top. His eyes are wide, staring with a dusty blankness towards the endless depth of stars in the sky, and extending from his shoulders are two huge, layered burn marks—wings, or the shadows of them, the precise shape of each gracefully contoured feather scarring the ancient rock. The fallen angel—truly fallen.

Rose begins to sob again, and this time I can feel tears—not just hers as they slip onto my shoulder, but also my own, hot and foreign on my cheeks. I never even realized that I was crying, but the proof is there now, and I raise my hand slowly, numbly, brushing my fingers over the dampness on my cheeks. Everyone seems to be in various stages of shock—the Doctor's face is completely blank, while Molly is choking and wailing into her hands beside him. As I watch, though, he moves over towards her, reaching an arm out and looping it around her thin shoulders. She turns with a high-pitched whimper and presses her face into his shoulder, reaching up to grip his tweed jacket with desperate hands. Dean watches Castiel silently, his glinting green eyes alight with something caught between pain and adoration, while Sam and Gwen simply seem electrified, apparently unable to decide whether to laugh or cry.

I'm much on the same level as them. We won, after all, didn't we? This must have been what Mycroft wanted, what he intended to happen when he brought Sherlock back of his own accord, rather than allowing Lucifer to reach him first. Dean and Sam are no longer in danger from Moran, Molly and Gwen can go back to their regular lives, Rose and I can resume our usual travels with the Doctor…

So why am I crying so hard?

Then, out of seemingly nowhere, the pain attacks all at once—huge and fierce enough to elicit a scream from me, which fires into the night. I think Rose gasps, or reacts in a somewhat similar fashion, but I can't tell—everything is suddenly alight with red as agony grips me again, and my muscles finally wrench themselves free from my control, pushing as hard as they can.

_"Shit!" _I shriek, and then Rose's voice in my ear again, saying the same things as before, as though Sherlock didn't just die, as though we didn't just destroy Lucifer.

"Amy, baby, please, it's okay, we're going to do this… can you get into the TARDIS? Let me take you to the TARDIS…"

"Can't—fucking—_move,_" I hiss, as I'm seized by another contraction. _"Goddammit_—_"_

Gwen begins to speak again, swiftly and intently. "Alright, Amy, calm down—everyone else, get in the TARDIS! Rose, get blankets—Doctor, do you have any painkillers?"

What moments before was a silent tableau of mourning is now a hive of frantic activity, as people swarm around me. Their voices and faces swim in and out—all I'm completely conscious of is the constant pain, ripping through me what seems to be every few seconds. Fuck—isn't labor supposed to take a long time, hours and hours? I can't handle this for that long, I can't—then there are blankets underneath and around me, someone is pulling my pants down despite my protests, and a rapid wave of nausea rocks through my stomach. I can't breathe—everything is pain and sickness and _hell, _where's Rose—no, she's there, that's her hand on mine, both of our palms are sweating, and she's still crying, though I don't know why anymore, and she probably doesn't, either.

"You're doing it, Amy, you're doing amazing," she promises through laughing sobs.

Hell—no, I'm not. I'm doing awful. I know I am. Minutes stretch by, one after another after another after another—both insanely fast and far too slow, both at once, until I suddenly realize how long I've been doing this for—it must have been an hour, two, but I can't keep track, and the same thoughts keep running through my mind—_something's going wrong, I fucked up somehow, I shouldn't have held back, she's going to be born disabled, or messed up, or not born at all… _my daughter—I know she's a daughter, somehow, even though Gwen can't quite call it yet—_Gwen—_I wonder for the first time how she even knows what she's doing. Has she had her own child before, or is she just—

My thoughts are abruptly cut off as the worst pang yet ricochets through me, and I'm _screaming, _Rose's fingernails are cutting into my skin—_"Push," _Gwen urges, and, fuck, I am pushing, I'm pushing as hard as I possibly can, but it hurts, it hurts it _hurts…_

Then I hear it.

She's crying.

Not Rose, not me, not even Gwen. Someone else, someone who surely must be a thousand times more precious than either of them… and as I blink agonized tears away from my eyes, I can see her, see Gwen gently lifting her from the pile of blankets in front of me, offering her to me.

"Oh—oh God," I sob, "my baby, my baby girl…"

"Be gentle with her," Gwen reminds me, but she's smiling, even though I can see dried tear tracks on her cheeks, too. Then she's allowing the baby into my arms—the baby, _my baby, _Rory's daughter, Rose's daughter. She's _tiny, _tiny and slippery and goopy and wailing at the top of her miniscule lungs—

She's _beautiful. _

There are so many tears, all over my cheeks and chin, covering my whole face, and I don't know anything, don't know whether they're for Sherlock or Lucifer or myself, whether they're happy or miserable—probably all of these things, all wound up in one another. There's only one thing in the entire world that I know for sure, and its three syllables burn intently in my mind as I cradle the delicate, gorgeous form of my baby, of—

"Melody," I whisper, and hug her to me like she's all I have left in the world.


	21. Chapter 20: Gwen Cooper

**A/N** _This is the last chapter-only the epilogue after it. For those of you who read all the way through, thank you so much!_

**Thanks to** _azebra117_

**Disclaimer** ___I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

Gwen Cooper

I breathe underwater  
It's all in my hands  
But what can I do?  
Don't let it fall apart  
A shot in the dark  
~ "Shot in the Dark," Within Temptation

**xxx**

My breath is silvery in the cold air, misting into a thin cloud. Pale flakes swirl in columns and vortexes—the first snow of the year for London. I tighten my arms closer to my sides and watch quietly as Dean finally steps back from the shallow grave, throwing the shovel aside. I bite down on my lip at the sight of the completed burial ground—God, it's hard, it's _still _hard to believe that he's gone, even a day afterwards. I barely knew him, and yet he was undoubtedly one of the most brilliant, brave people I've ever met. Now… he's gone.

"You okay?" Sam checks from my side.

I sigh and let my head rest against him, folding my arms as I gaze on tearlessly. "I suppose so," I mumble. The truth is that I barely know, myself. I don't say that, though. I don't say anything else at all.

"Suppose that's it, then." Dean turns away. As we watch, he walks straight out of the cemetery, his head down, feet crunching on the frosted grass, until he reaches the gate. Even there, he doesn't stop, but instead chooses to push past it and start down the street. After an instant, Castiel flickers out of existence beside me and Sam and reappears on the sidewalk beside Dean, walking alongside him but not speaking a word. Other than that, none of us make a move towards him—if he doesn't want to deal with this right now, I suppose he can't be blamed. He probably feels guilty, knowing that Sherlock died for something that was meant to be the responsibility of him and his brother. He already did more than he needed to, digging the grave—we bought a headstone, but beyond that, it was a mutual agreement that we wanted to do this ourselves, and he was the most physically capable—other than Sam, who instead vouched to stay at my side.

I'm not quite sure what's between me and Sam, at this point. He likes me, and I like him, but he's clearly not over Gabriel yet, and I've admitted to myself that I probably need to spend a little more time getting used to Rhys's loss, before I start going after a new partner.

But there's no reason that we're going to be heading our separate ways anytime soon, so maybe there'll be a chance for a real romance. I suppose we'll have to wait and see.

"I feel like… should we say something, maybe?" Sam offers halfheartedly. None of us reply—Amy and Rose both have tears on their cheeks, while Molly and the Doctor are silent, blank. All four of them knew Sherlock much better than we did—Sam and I are the odd ones out here.

"Never mind," he amends, soft enough that only I can hear. I lower my hand to squeeze his wrist lightly, and he returns the action, his own grip quick and warm. Both of us gaze ahead, not speaking a word.

The headstone is simple enough. _Sherlock Holmes. 2012—_none of us knew his birthdate, and he didn't have any family members that we could contact. Below the name and year, a brief sentence is inscribed, the dark cut of the letters standing out against the pale marble, overlaid by the gentle snowfall.

_On the side of the angels._

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?" the Doctor checks for the hundredth time.

Amy rolls her eyes good-naturedly, hitching Melody up a bit farther in her arms. The tiny baby is swaddled in a pale pink blanket, her bright blue eyes gleaming out with an intent curiosity. There's something just a bit strange about Melody Pond-Tyler—she's intelligent, far too much so for her age of half a week. Of course she doesn't speak, or even perform so much as simple motor movements, but there's a certain way that her eyes follow the actions of others—almost like she knows just what's going on, like she's already putting things together.

"I'm _positive,_" the Scot says emphatically. A smirk curves her lips, and she tilts her head slightly. "This is what we need, Doctor. This life of zipping around and getting near-killed by aliens—Melody's too young for it. But, who knows… maybe someday you'll take her for yourself, yeah? Once she's decided that her old mums are too boring for a proper life…"

"Hopefully that won't be too soon," Rose adds. She's grinning widely, and there's a deep warmth to her eyes as she looks over her partner and daughter. She and Amy have had a lot of hard times—even as a relatively unrelated bystander, it's been more than clear enough for me. And yet, now, it really looks like they're happy—genuinely happy.

Sherlock's funeral, if it can be called as much, was three days ago. We've spent the time trying to pull ourselves together—which, for me, meant a lot of mulling around the TARDIS and trying not to bother the others. Amy and Rose spent most of the time holed up in their room, and I heard soft murmuring from it every time that I passed the door on my long strolls down the time machine's corridors, which I now know the layout of far better than necessary. Every time I got a glimpse of Molly—during mutual kitchen raids, or otherwise just lingering sits in the console bay—she was teary-eyed, but she looks better now. The Doctor didn't show up for the entire few days. I don't know where he managed to hide, but I suppose he knew the place very well, and he took advantage of that—using the time to stay on his own and, apparently, restore his energy.

He seems better now—_much _better, and far less terrifyingly numb. More like the bright-spirited, overeager Doctor that Jack always described. At this exact moment, though, his lips are pressed tight together in a bittersweet expression—with good reason, too. He's saying goodbye to two people, both of whom have traveled with him for years. And yet there's a shine in his eyes that's the opposite of upset. He's glad, too—clearly glad that his adventures with Amy and Rose can end this way, outside of a nice-looking London flat, bloodless and tearless. If—_when—_the two women eventually do die, it won't be with or because of the Doctor. They're moving on, and I can absolutely feel the complicated mixture of emotions that must fill him at their departure.

"Well… take care of yourselves. And little Mels, too."

"We will," Amy promises firmly, and she spares a brief glance down towards her miniscule daughter. A soft expression crosses her face then—one that appears every time she lays eyes on Melody. Unbelievably tender. I can't help but smile, a secondhand but undoubtedly warm emotion filling my chest. And I'm glad, myself—glad that this little family, at least, made it through everything. "And, Doctor—don't get too grumpy, alright? You've got plenty ahead of you. River, right? You've barely met River."

He smiles slightly at that. "True enough. I look forward to it."

The faintest scowl darkens Molly's expression, and I can't help but be slightly entertained by her jealousy. I'm sure she knows no more about this River figure than I do, but it's clear from Amy's slightly suggestive tone that she's probably not a platonic friend.

"Of course," Rose cuts in, apparently noticing Molly's expression, "you have a perfectly wonderful companion to occupy you in the meantime."

"I do indeed," the Doctor agrees. He swings an arm around Molly's shoulder and pulls her close, a smile breaking out over his face. "You and I have some long-overdue exploring ahead of us, don't we, Miss Molly?"

_"Long _overdue," she agrees emphatically, to which he responds with a hearty laugh.

"Best of luck, Pond, Rose," the Doctor offers on a parting note. Rose salutes playfully and Amy beams—I wave to them, too, just a small motion, but it gets noticed and returned. Sam and Cas give awkward nods and a slight smile (on the part of the former), but Dean actually steps forward, going up and giving Amy a one-armed hug.

"Live a good life," he tells her, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth without fully materializing.

"You too, monster hunter," she shoots back. "Don't get killed by demons."

"I'll try my best."

No more words need to be said after that. The Doctor leads us back to the TARDIS, and I spare one last glance over my shoulder. The last I ever see of Amy Pond and Rose Tyler, they're turning around, snowflakes tangled in both of their hair and laughter in their eyes, towards their new house—their new life.

Now, I suppose, it's time to go and pursue mine.

"Torchwood," I tell the Doctor, turning around as I close the door. "You can take us back to Torchwood now."

"So soon?" he questions, looking a bit hurt. "But you can stay a while, right? All four of you, if you'd like—and Miss Molly, of course—you've barely seen anything, only the bad bits! There's so much more of the universe, just you wait. The future Earths, the _past _Earth, all the satellites, planets—Raxacoricofallapatorius, now, that's quite a place, and you aren't a true companion of mine if you've never had a good look down a Dalek's eyestalk—"

"Doctor," I interrupt. "I don't think… we don't have the time to become true companions of yours. We should get back to Torchwood. They need us there."

"Yes, well—see, this is a time machine, so it has the added benefit of being able to drop you off wherever you want, whenever you want. There won't be a problem depositing you back at Torchwood." He seems to be becoming excited by his own words, and he twirls in a bit of a circle, throwing his hands into the air. "One year—give me one year. No, six months. You won't _believe _what you can see in six—"

"Doctor."

He breaks off abruptly, then sighs, his hands falling to his sides. He doesn't look really upset, just disheartened. "Fine," he grumbles. "Off to boring old Torchwood it is, then. But you'd better be expecting visits from me—tell Jack that he'll be seeing me a bit more often than he pleases."

"I don't know if that's even possible," I reply honestly, but with humor in my tone. He snorts and flips a few switches, setting the TARDIS's coordinates.

"All of you to Torchwood, then?"

"We—" Dean begins, glancing over at Cas, but I interrupt.

"All of us to Torchwood."

The Winchesters each raise their eyebrows towards me in perfect synchronicity, a rather amusing sight, and I bite back a laugh. Yeah, it'll be nice for them to stick around—even if I won't let myself keep traveling in the TARDIS, the least I can do for myself, and for all of us, is to keep at least some of the team together.

"I'll still be with you," Molly points out, sidling up to the Doctor. She seems more comfortable, now—with him, and just with people in general. Though I don't dare to comment on it, I can't help but wonder whether it's even partially caused by Sherlock's death. Though I have no doubt that she genuinely liked him, their relationship was incredibly unhealthy—for her, at least, though I suppose she was good for him. Now she doesn't have to worry about him—she can truly let it go, allow herself to be the woman that she was before Sherlock Holmes came along.

"Yes, you will." He pokes her in the forehead, and they both giggle ridiculously, like toddlers. I roll my eyes. Now, _them—_they're definitely good for each other. I'm glad that they managed to stay together in the end, too—come to think of it, almost all the people who were healthier with others than on their own pulled off survival. It's a nice thought.

"Torchwood," the Doctor declares several moments later, once the noises of the TARDIS have finally silenced. "For all four of you."

"Hang on a sec," Dean interrupts, his gaze shifting over to mine. "What exactly are we doing here, anyways?"

I cross my arms and tilt my chin up. "We hunt aliens. You hunt ghosts. It seems like we could use a business convergence."

His eyes widen incredulously. "What, you mean us join Torchwood? Or… Torchwood join us, or something like that?"

"That's exactly what I mean." I'm rather proud of the idea, myself—it _works _so well, after all. We're undoubtedly more powerful together than either of us are on our own. Torchwood has the personnel and resources that the Winchesters need, and Sam, Dean, and Castiel all seem exceptionally tough, wonderful to add to the crew. Besides, I can't wait to see the look on Dean's face when Jack inevitably goes for a flirt with Cas.

"We're used to working alone…" Sam begins, but I silence him with a finger to the lips, pressing down gently. As he silences, surprise bright in his eyes, I speak the words necessary to shut them up.

"Just come with me. It'll be fine, trust me."

They obediently close their mouths, and, smiling, I stride over to the door and push it open. The Doctor's parked us right in the center of the Hub—the familiar stretch of metal walls and high ceilings sends a swell of comfort through my chest. Oh, it's good to be back here—this place is my home, really. My house with Rhys never had the same passionate vibe, the same sense of belonging. And the mere thought of seeing my friends, seeing Jack and Ianto and Owen and Tosh, causes a smile to spread over my face.

"Nice place," Dean comments, following me out. "This is Torchwood?"

"This is Torchwood," I confirm. Sam and Cas come after him, and I step back inside for a moment. "Doctor, Molly? You coming?"

"Coming?" the Doctor repeats in surprise.

"Of course! I'm not just going to let you stand and wait, am I? C'mon, say hi to Jack. He'll love it."

"Oh, I'm sure he will," the Doctor mutters to himself. I snort and withdraw, pivoting on the spot just in time to see Jack himself rapidly descending down a staircase, his eyebrows high in pleasant surprise.

"Gwen!" he exclaims, hurrying over to me with a wide grin spread over his face. "Great to see you again, girl! Get any spectacular world-saving done?"

For some reason, his good attitude dulls mine, and my own smile wavers slightly even as I accept his loose hug. I lean in close to his ear, murmuring the essential words, quick and dry—"Sherlock didn't make it."

When I pull back, his blue eyes are shadowed, darkening his handsome face. "I'm sorry," he says in a much more subdued tone as the Doctor and Molly pour out of the TARDIS. "He was a good man."

"A brilliant man," the Doctor agrees, "and one who, in the end, sacrificed himself for a cause that he believed in."

"So, you did win?"

"Lucifer's dead," the Time Lord confirms. At this, Jack looks utterly confused, his eyebrows reaching up so high that they threaten to approach his hairline.

_"Lucifer? _Did you start dealing with the Devil, or just a guy lucky enough to share the name?" he inquires, amazement far from suppressed in his tone.

"It was the Devil," I mutter, realizing just now how little Jack knows. Last time I was here, the Doctor was only stopping by to ask whether Jack knew anything about Sherlock's resurrection. Now the consulting detective has died all over again, and we've prevented the Apocalypse on the way—as well as picked up Sam, Dean, and Cas, who, I realize now, I have to explain. "We've got quite a story to tell."

"I look forward to it. Do you all want to sit down, then? Tosh and Owen are out—on what is _absolutely not a date," _he says with a wink, turning and gesturing that the rest of us follow. My jaw drops ever so slightly—_Tosh and Owen on a date?—_and it strikes me that he has some filling in to do, himself. Even a few days at Torchwood can be astoundingly eventful, apparently.

Jack leads us up to his office, and the others all gape at the Hub as we go—the sleek technologies, grumbling machines, and scattered alien artifacts that have become familiar to me must be utterly foreign to the rest of them. The Doctor seems delighted and Molly curious, while Sam, Dean, and Cas are just dumbfounded. Moments later, we're entering Jack's office—I feel an involuntary smile twitch to my lips when I see Ianto waiting inside, looking mildly surprised, and the expression grows at the sight of Elska clinging to her father's leg.

"Hey," I greet them.

"Gwen," Ianto murmurs, returning the expression. Then his eyes flicker over to the other five, and they widen slightly—before he can say anything, though, Jack speaks up in a tone just a bit too airy.

"Ianto, Elska, why don't you go and bring us some coffee? I'm sure they'd love to have yours, you know how wonderful it is," he adds at Ianto, who rolls his eyes but obediently heads out of the room.

"It's just as effective to ask for us to leave you lot alone for a bit," he calls exasperatedly over his shoulder, but he doesn't seem really upset. As soon as the door closes behind the two of them, Jack sighs and paces over his desk, settling down behind it. The others sink into chairs scattered about the room, except for the Doctor and I, who stay standing.

"So." Jack places his elbows on the desk and glances over each of us. "What happened?"

I wait about three seconds to make sure that the Doctor isn't going to take on the role of answering, and when he doesn't, I take a deep breath and proceed to do so myself. "It… well… it started out when the TARDIS brought us to Iowa, in America. She's been kind of taking off on her own all this time…" And she has, really. She brought us together at the beginning, when we met up with the Winchesters, and the end, to defeat Lucifer. In a way, the machine is the one that's done the most of us all, and we never even gave her any proper credit. I resolve to do so now, to make up for it—it's not like she can hear me, but I want to acknowledge everything that she's done for us; the world might not still be spinning if the TARDIS hadn't taken off on her own.

"The TARDIS did… a lot for us, I suppose, in the end."

* * *

It takes a quarter hour to explain everything in the simplest way possible, and, by the end, Jack's jaw is hanging. He's barely spoken at all, only to clarify some points (_You really killed the Devil? That guy's an _angel?), and the occasional flirty glance has been tossed in the direction of both Winchesters as well as Cas—all three of them seem as though they really have no idea how to react, and I won't deny that it's highly entertaining, even through the somber veil of the story's end, of Sherlock's death.

"Well, that's quite a tale that you have," Jack says, shaking his head and sitting back so that his chair creaks slightly. "And quite some boys you've brought along with you, too."

Dean scowls and twitches almost unconsciously closer to Cas, while I suffice to reprimand Jack with a stern look. "You'll have plenty of time to make them feel uncomfortable later. That's what I want to ask you about, actually—well, the big thing." I take a deep breath and shift my shoulders back—my legs have grown slightly numb from standing in the position for so long, so I drag one of my feet back and forth restlessly. "I think that these three should join Torchwood."

His brow furrows for perhaps three seconds, drawing an expression of intense deliberation—then it smooths out, and he nods slowly. "That could work, I think. I mean, obviously we're going to have to look into official employment—for Castiel, especially, I really have no idea what protocol is when it comes to non-human members—but ghost hunters, well… there have been a couple of things that I've stumbled upon and been unable to explain. We could definitely use your help."

I turn towards Sam, smiling tentatively but hopefully. To my relief, he seems far less dubious than I expected—in fact, he's slowly nodding, seeming to convince himself of the offer's advantage. "It really could work out," he mentions to Dean, who doesn't seem quite as willing, though he's also not making any sort of argument.

"A full-time job would be… weird, but…" the older Winchester trails off, shrugging and staring down at his hands. He seems… quiet, I can't help but think. Of course I've noticed it before—ever since Sherlock died, really—but so much of the spirit that filled him before has now sunken down to a quiet simmer; he only speaks when absolutely necessary, and when he thinks nobody's watching him, his face slips into some indescribably deep expression, a cross between thoughtfulness and upset that I can't quite put a name to. Guilt, maybe. Guilt at letting one of his friends die.

My intent watching, though, reveals subtleties—like Cas's shoulder shifting slightly, just a bit closer to the tired-looking man sitting beside him. And, for just the slightest second, I feel like I can see them—Cas's wings, like pale, whispered shadows, drifting towards Dean, curling around him, warming him. And maybe Dean himself gets the same expression, too, because just a tiny bit of the weight stoning him down rises slightly, visible in his eyes and his posture alike.

He really has found what he needs. Who he needs.

"Yeah, it could work," he finishes—still not smiling, but not frowning, either. He looks… peaceful. He's made up his mind, I know, as well as Sam, and of course Cas isn't about to turn down the offer if both of them have accepted it. "But I need my jacket back, and my car, too—"

"Jack can get those for you," the Doctor promises immediately.

"Right, I've got a vortex manipulator, it can do the job…." Jack gives the Doctor a semi-suspicious look. "I thought you hated that kind of time travel? Called it was cheap, right?"

The Doctor shrugs it off, even though I know exactly what's going on—he doesn't want to revisit the old sites, the places where the Impala and the jacket were left. He wants to be done with it all, completely done… he's avoiding his past.

Despite that, though, I can't help but be happy—Dean agreed, the Winchesters are joining Torchwood, and triumph flows through me, resulting in a beam. Sam returns the expression, and I bounce eagerly on my heels—it makes me happy, God, it does. I'm not ready to lose these three, and being able to work with them… it'll be perfect. Eagerness runs through me—I already can't wait for it all, for the alien hunts, the _ghost _hunts, the cups of Ianto's coffee and the basketball games with Myfanwy… it'll be brilliant. Amazing. A dream come true.

The perfect way to get over Rhys.

And as I look up into Jack's blue eyes, it reminds me that this is what he wanted for me, all along—and I've finally achieved it.

* * *

"I guess this is goodbye, then," I shrug, unsure how else to bid the Doctor and Molly farewell. It feels… anticlimactic, almost, for them to be leaving now. Nobody's crying, or laughing, and the TARDIS looks far too big with only two people inside of it. "Thank you, for… everything. I'm glad I came with you, Doctor. Everything that you showed me, even in a time as short as this, I… couldn't have asked for anything better, I really couldn't."

"Maybe I'll have to stop back for you sometime, eh?" he offers, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "You really haven't experienced the best until you've seen another planet."

"Maybe," I agree, and it really _is _agreement—I'm open, willing to perhaps take a break from Torchwood if he comes back, if I really need it. At the same time, though, I don't have any doubt that it'll be a while until I need something like that. I've got Sam, and Dean and Cas, and everyone else, of course—after we cleared up everything, we got the chance to explain things to Ianto and Elska, and though they seemed a bit ambivalent about letting three near-strangers into Torchwood, they were willing enough. Torchwood has become my family, and perhaps a break is what it took to show me as much.

I turn to Molly, then—I'm going to miss her, too. She was overshadowed rather often, really, with everything going on, and I never got the chance to fully appreciate her. She seems brilliant, though, and I'm sure that she and the Doctor will work wonderfully together—as time traveler and companion, but also, maybe, something else as well. Either way, I know they'll be happy.

"It was great to travel with you," I tell her, offering a hand, which she takes steadily and delivers a firm shake to.

"Same," she agrees, her tone almost shy. "I'll… maybe see you in the future, right?"

"Right," I confirm, pulling away. Cas and the Winchesters all speak their own goodbyes, and then there's nothing yet to say. The Doctor tilts his hand in a final wave, and Molly smiles out at us, looking happier than I've seen her all this time—I barely get to savor their expressions, though, because then the door closes and the TARDIS begins to fade, its creaking whistle carried through the crisp Cardiff air. It isn't snowing here like it is in London, but it's plenty cold, and I instinctively lean closer to Sam, sighing softly.

"Ready to go inside?" he asks, looping his arm over my shoulder.

I shake my head. "Not yet… not quite."

I need a moment. Just one more moment to take it all in, process it all. Dean and Cas stand a few yards away from us, their faces close and their eyes shifted downwards, extending soft words. I don't listen in on them, but instead let my senses wander, listening to everything—the rumble of cars on the street, the whip of wind in the air, the last breathy hints of the TARDIS fading into nothingness. Sam's heart beats against my cheek, warm and steady, a consistent pulse amid the quiet chaos of the city.

Jack and Ianto are waiting inside, and Tosh and Owen will probably come back soon enough, to meet the other three. I should go—all four of us should, and yet we can't quite. It's like something's keeping us in place, something unidentifiable—as horrible and gruesome and bloody as it ended up being, none of us quite want to end our time with the Doctor. And staying out here, watching silently after the TARDIS, is the only way that we can hold onto it.

Sherlock is dead. I remind myself of this for the millionth time, and, for the first time, it really hits me—hits me in its entirety. Sherlock is dead, and maybe it's better this way. He can be with John, who he missed so much, who he desperately wanted to see again more than anything else. Lucifer is gone, not to Heaven or Hell, but truly _gone, _vanished off the face of existence, never to torment Earth again. Even Moran is dead. And those of us who are left… well, we're where we're meant to be. Amy and Rose with Melody, the Doctor with Molly, the Winchesters and Cas and me with Torchwood.

_It's good this way. It's best this way. Everything that had to happen happened, and now we can all move on. _

A particularly harsh gust of wind snaps past us, and I cling to Sam's jacket, wincing as my hair tangles in my eyes. There's no more use standing out here, as if we're in some sort of ridiculous vigil—we have to keep going, move onto the rest of our lives.

"Ready now?" Sam asks gently, his words warm and soft.

"Yeah," I agree slowly. I turn towards Dean and Cas, who are looking up now, towards us, then to the Hub. Dean gives me a quick nod, which I return, and then the two of them start towards the hidden entrance that Jack and I explained, leaving only Sam and me outside on the street. "I suppose I am."

"It'll be good," Sam promises, like he thinks I need reassuring, for some reason. "Things worked out okay, I'd say, don't you think? And I have to admit, I'm really glad that I don't have to deal with Lucifer anymore."

"I know it'll be good," I interrupt, holding a hand up to silence him. And I've never spoken truer words. "I know."


	22. Epilogue

**A/N** _And here's the end. I don't intend to create a sequel, but thank you so much to anyone who reviewed, favorited, or alerted. _

**Thanks to** _azebra117, Mashlie Needs Some Benadryl, and Cutiepi97_

**Disclaimer** ___I don't own Doctor Who/Torchwood/Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

Sun bathes everything, illuminating even the darkest shadows with a tinge of buttered gold, breathing a soft cloud of almost childish unreality over the field. The sky is pure, undisrupted blue, and candy-colored flowers dot the pale green grass that rolls in mounds and hills, dappled here and there by a patch of clover or small, light-barked tree. Tittering birds add to the impression of a fairytale, as does the temperature—perfectly warm, not hot enough to draw sweat or cold enough to incite shivers. Sublimely peaceful.

Only three are here: Vastra, Jenny, and Jack. The Silurian and two humans whom he decided were most important—and still alive, but he doesn't think about that, because this is a special day, and he's allowed his mind to be lifted free of those bonds. The Doctor has never gone through this before. Of course there were all the accidental involvements, over the years—engagements that occasionally lead to their desired result, but they were different; during them he was only trying to think of a way to escape, to move onto his next adventure, back to his companions.

Now, this is the adventure, and this is his companion.

She walks herself down the makeshift aisle, a smooth parting in the grass. A veil obscures her face, glittering white and silver under the soft sun. This planet really does have spectacular lighting, he thinks, and climate, as well—she chose the perfect location. He'd never even heard of this place before now—him, _the Doctor, _and she upped him one, like she has so many, many times.

Maybe that's why he ended up with her, he thinks. Because she's shown that she doesn't just need him—he needs her, equally, perhaps even more. Many others pined after him, and yet he pines after her.

The others. They burn in his mind, even now—in a small, secluded corner, their wails hushed by the overwhelmingly content vibe that consumes him. And yet they're still audible, just barely. The screams—not theirs, but his own, burning from the inside.

_A brown-eyed, blonde-haired woman, sobbing as a chilly beach faded into unreality…_

_A smirking brunette, her eyes intelligent and her chin high, speaking the words that cleanly cracked his heart…_

_An unimpressed-looking redhead, barely giving him a second glance as she stepped into the living room of her own home… _

_A slightly scruffy blonde man, his last breaths draining him, leaving him limp on the bottom bunk of a bed in an abandoned military base with a cracked floor and dampness on the walls…_

_The first one, back once more, and holding the hand of her lovely ginger-haired partner, smiling and laughing and waving without a tear in sight… a baby cradled between them… Melody… River. _

River.

She steps fully up to him, watching slyly from underneath the veil. Her golden curls are particularly fluffed up, longer than the last time he saw her, hanging nearly halfway to her elbows. Her eyes are the green of pond water, and her gauze-blurred features catlike… young. Younger, practically, than he's ever seen her before. This is early for her, meaning that so many the other times—his memories—are her future.

She has so much ahead of her. And so does he. So much still to be unveiled, to be explored together, experienced and laughed at and cried through together.

That's what he thought with Molly, but he doesn't allow himself the image of her right now, because he's too old for that, and it will only exhaust him, only leach the spirit out of him. Molly is gone now, but River isn't, River is here.

"Hello, sweetie," she greets under her breath, tilting her chin up towards him. "You've gotten tall."

"New regeneration does that," he replies lightly, still unfamiliar with the way his own voice scratches at his throat and moves through his lips, mouth. It's something that humans never get the chance to experience, that absurd shift to another being, but she does—she already has, and that's probably one of the reasons why he settled for her, after all. She knows him so well, not just through acquired familiarity, but also because she's like him, the closest to the same that he'll ever encounter.

"Which one are you on now? It was eleventh last time I saw you." She's still barely speaking above a whisper, which he supposes is proper, but then again, he's never been to any normal sort of wedding, anyways. Perhaps it's his own presence that's always prevented them from being such.

"Thirteenth."

The syllables darken her eyes, and she draws in a quick breath, looking down at the ground for a long moment before raising her stare again. It's concerned now, wide, plaintive. No one else sees her like this—no one else can _make _her like this, not even her parents, on the rare occasion that she did get to encounter them.

"It's late for you… it's too late."

"It's never too late," he promises gently, raising a hand and placing his fingers on her forearm. They depress the white silk of her sleeve, which glitters under the sunlight just like everything else, along with the dazzling pearls lining her cuff. "Besides, this is pretty early on in it. I've got a ways to go, don't you worry."

"You sound different," she sighs, but it's not unhappy. She sidles up against him, their sides brushing against one another, and he can't help but smile. She really is young. Young and innocent. He likes her this way, he decides—of course, he almost always likes her, but this particularly stands out to him. It's a shame that he won't be able to see her quite this way again, if she hasn't experienced the thirteenth version of him before.

"I feel different," he responds idly, "but… good, still."

"Good."

Jack clears his throat and lifts the book held in one of his hands—an old book, Gallifreyan, taken and dusted off from the deepest storage compartments of the TARDIS. It contains the spousal rituals of the Time Lords, simply because he could never have it done any other way. That'll make it special, too, he decides; no one's gotten married this way in thousands of years, and, after he and River are gone, chances are that they never will again.

He starts to read, his American human tongue contorting the words slightly, but he's practiced, and the Doctor doesn't mind. It's beautiful just to hear his own language, even by a foreign speaker—beautiful, in a way, to know that he and River are the only ones who understand what's being said. It makes the moment more personal, more private… more special.

Jack stumbles a few times, stopping to cough or squint closer at the words. He's getting older, too. He still won't admit it, but the Doctor can't help but believe that it might be intentional—he's staying out of the way of death, not letting himself be renewed, so that he can better suit Ianto, probably. His hair is streaked through with silver, and he wears reading glasses, shoved on casually as if in the hope that people won't notice them that way. Torchwood is still going strong, apparently—they've lost a few of their old members and gained some new ones, including his and Ianto's daughter, now a lovely young woman with an amazing knack for rifle shooting. The angel is still there, quieter now that Dean's gone, but Jack always says that he seems content enough—satisfied with the long years that the two did manage to share.

Sometimes, he—the Doctor—will remember everything that happened. Surely the most trying events of his three-thousand-year life, the most mind-blowing, the most devastating. But also, in a way, the most beautiful. Starting on the dinosaur planet, and leading all the way to taking off to Torchwood, Molly in tow. Or maybe it went even beyond that—to her end.

_Molly Hooper died the worst of deaths. _

He will not think about that right now. He cannot think about that right now. It still stings too freshly, and so he presses his lips more firmly together, sealing his fingers around River's wrist. Jack's on the last few phrases now, and he finishes them with a flourish, a gallant air to his voice despite its aging creakiness. The Doctor feels a smile coming to his face, an irresistible tickle at his cheeks, and he lets it materialize as the final syllable melts away into the murmur of breeze and birds coasting over the hillside.

He reaches up, and—delicately, as though handling the frailest of creatures—pinches the corner of her veil between his fingers, lifting it, exposing her face. For a moment, he's breathless from her beauty, from her proximity, from the smoldering fire in her eyes and the wide dazzle of her feline grin. But she doesn't give him the time to be dumbfounded, not before she wraps her arms around him, joining them at the back of his neck, and pulls him down.

They kiss warmly, eagerly, and not for any prolonged time—only a few seconds of condensed perfection, of her stevia-sweet taste on his lips, the butterfly-wing flutter of her eyelashes against his cheek, the shaking tremble of the delighted laugh in her throat. Then he pulls back and turns to face the rest of them—the two women are clapping politely, Jenny bearing an excited beam while Vastra smiles more serenely, and Jack releases a shameless whoop and throws a fist into the air.

River's laugh finally takes full shape, and she nuzzles up against him, not kissing again, only touching—touching his jaw and his neck and his shoulder, exploring the texture of his skin. "There," she whispers into his ear, her voice tickling; "aren't you glad you agreed to marry me, you stupid madman?"

"I suppose I'll have to wait and see if it's worthwhile," he returns, but he's smiling, too, and they both already know that this was the right choice—him from the future, her from the present. That's the beautiful thing about River: he'll never have to let her go. They've already shattered a million paradoxes together, surely, so one more here and there can't hurt, and he'll never have to see her end—_never again, _in any case. Twice was far more than enough, but now those are both over, now he can relax and let the remainder of his years flow by in a honeyed daze.

He does not plan to take on any more companions, excluding her, of course. Molly was the last.

_Oh, poor Molly…_

And then it hits him full-force, shattering the flawless bronzy pleasure for a handful of barbed heartbeats.

_The blood, everywhere, causing her shirt to stick to her skin, plastering her hair against her cheek, flowing freely from her mouth and out of a scratch under one eye._

_The paleness of her visage, waxy, like a haunted moon, absolutely stark in contrast to the vivid crimson pumping over it. _

_Her eyes, wide and light and brown, brimming with tears that slide into the blood and poison it, sting at it, dilute it, her stare wild and imploring, desperate for something that he can't possibly offer. _

_And, above all else, her screams, absolutely earsplitting, heartbreaking, ripping his own lungs out of his chest as he returns them, sobs, begs that she deserves better, that this isn't right, that he loves her and he can't watch it and please, please take him instead. _

"Doctor," River says, "Doctor."

He exhales, and lets the memories fade with the breath, twisting and floating away into the air, escaping. They haven't left him, not truly, but he can at least ignore them for now, because it's all over, all of it, and there's not a thing he can do to change the past. It's taken him a long, long time to learn that, but it's rooted solidly in his mind now. He's positive. He understands—he finally does.

This is his life. And it's not perfect, of course it's not, but that's what makes it beautiful. It really is, he supposes, a pile of good things and bad things—or perhaps more like a well, thick with swirling, molten colors, dark navy for his regret, blazing red for his anger, mellow green for his calmness, dazzling gold for his pride, blushed cream for his love. And though the colors may flow on top of and below and beside ad between one another, they don't merge, and that is what matters, in the end, because every single one of the colors is gloriously distinct, standing out to him in stunning individuality. In truth, he treasures them all. Every memory is part of what makes up who he is now.

And one of the thickest strands of recollection must be those times, those two times when they all came together—his companions, Sherlock and John, the Winchesters, Torchwood. So many shades of emotion are woven tightly together there that he can barely separate them, and they come to him instead in a surge of passion, of strength.

It all burns inside of him, fierce and bright and determined, and it powers him into what he is today.

"Doctor," River says again, her voice stirring him, reminding him to be here, now. He's done dwelling in the past, now—entirely done, because the past _is _the past, and regardless of how many years it took him to come to terms with that, he knows it. That was all the past, and this is the present, and everything else will be the future.

"Yes," he decides.

She raises one sandy blonde eyebrow. "Yes what?"

"Yes… yes, it will be worthwhile. It already is." He tucks two of his fingers tenderly under her chin and smiles down at her puzzled expression, reveling in her innocence, her naïveté that he knows won't stay forever, or for very long at all. "Just to do this… just to be with someone, to have something like this to myself. It's everything I could have asked for."

"And here I was worried about getting sappy, myself," she chuckles. "I never would have expected it from you, Doctor."

"There are a lot of things I do that are unexpected. Usually to myself, as well as everyone else."

She giggles, and he wraps an arm around her, hugging her close and looking up into the endless blue sky, almost seeing past it, to the millions and billions and trillions of galaxies beyond.

_Yes, _he thinks again, feeling River's form against him, the steadiness of his feet planted on the ground. _There is so much more to come. _


End file.
